#its a wonder how this piece survived my attention span

[jaydarino]

I think they'd be friends <3

[isolaradiale]

The small 'ahem' and the dimming lights brought the attention of the closing party back on the podium. On it was Janus, looking a great deal better than he was a few minutes ago (when he was practicing his closing speech on a statue when he thought nobody was looking.) On the stage, he took a deep breath and brightened as everyone turned in their formal evening attire.

"Thank you all for coming to the Closing Party. It's been a pretty busy week, and all of you have made such beautiful and wonderous pieces of art. I'm overjoyed that they're on display tonight, and I thought there wasn't any way to view all of them in the span of a couple hours. So this last night of the museum will be going on until the sun rises again. You don't have to stay the entire time, but--"

"Well, sure they do!"

The interjection startled the AI at the podium, and he jumped a few feet from his spot. The chipper voice started again as one of the other statues on the stage moved, revealing the form of a marble-sculpted woman covered in holographic stickers.

"After all, each and every one of you put in so much effort into bringing your imaginations and inspirations to life, haven't you? So we thought we might return the favor, that's all. And you're all invited!"

Punctuating her statement was the sound of the large wooden doors, now slamming shut inward with a reverberating BOOM that bounced off all the halls of the lobby, even from the auditorium.

"I hope you all put everything into your masterpieces! Because your masterpieces will put everything into annihilating all of you~"

With another delighted laugh, the lights in the auditorium shut off, leaving everyone with only the light of their phones and watches. And as the murmurs began and hands reached for other hands in the dark, there was another THUNK near the wall as a framed portrait fell off its anchor. From its canvas, it began to look at the crowd, eyes now glowing in the light of everyone's flashlights. One hand crawled out of the frame, then another. Nails sank into the floor with terrifying ease as the subject of the portrait pulled themselves from its frame, marble cracking at its fingertips.

The next sound was a scream, and the sound of a woman falling onto the floor as the portrait pulled at her ankles. And then another. And another still as the frames began to move off the walls en masse, attacking anyone unlucky enough to be in their sights. There was a panic in the auditorium as people tried to flee and fight, falling over each other to escape the room

But it seemed that no matter where anyone chose to run to, or where they thought to hide, there was always something in the shadows.

Waiting.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Welcome to Part Two of the event!

As stated, the artwork in the Tempus Museum has come to life--literally, in this case. You've been challenged to survive until the next sunrise. To do so, you must evade, capture or destroy the horrific objects that have come to life.

Most of the artwork in the museum is hostile, and will attempt to un-alive your characters as best they can.

These generic museum monsters can be found everywhere wandering around, but are more common in areas they originated from:

Subjects and people in paintings will crawl out of their canvases to chase and eliminate anything they see moving. Their sharp nails can pierce through marble, so flesh and bone is probably nothing to them. Humanoids are not exclusive to this class of monster--painted animals, creatures and other things will also hop out of paintings to come after your muse. You can capture a painting monster by smacking it with a canvas, or destroy it with paint thinner (or water, if it's a watercolor)

Framed sketches will behave similarly to the painting monsters, and will leave lots of thin scratches as opposed to big ones. Capture them with paper, or destroy them by rubbing them with an eraser.

Statues of any material will chase your characters and attempt to injure them with their fists (or if they were holding a weapon, they'll use that weapon). Catch them by making them run back to their plaques, stands and pedestals, or destroy using a hammer and chisel.

The Parlor Dolls have now, unfortunately, all grown sharp teeth. They've all taken on ghastly appearances, and if they swarm around you, it might as well be the end of you. You can capture a doll by chasing it back into a display case, or destroy it by carefully ripping their seams.

Dancing Dresses in the painted ballroom will beckon people to dance with them, and will attempt to catch people in the folds of their fabric to immobilize them. They're not lethal on their own, but they'll hold your muse in place for something more dangerous to come along. Capture them by hitting them with a dress form, or destroy them by ripping their seams OR cutting them with scissors. - NOTE: Characters who bowed and danced with any of the ghostly gowns at the Gala XY will not harm the people who danced with them, and will instead, keep dancing.

Decorated Weapons made in the forge will take a life of their own and will seemingly float around, looking for battle. Sometimes they'll team up with Statues, making them especially deadly companions. Capture them by hitting them with a weapon rack, or destroy them with a hammer or any significant heat source.

Baked Goods and Pastries made in the culinary courtyard will not get up on their own, but a good many of them have become poisoned. The severity and potency of the poisons varies, with side effects ranging from an upset stomach to a sudden case of death. They don't move, so you don't have to capture them, but... maybe don't eat them, no matter how good they may smell and look.

Paintings on the street have come to life, making hazards of their own outside of the museum. Street-painted landscapes have become very tangibly real, as well as anything sprayed on the walls. If there was ever a time to regret the giant mural you painted on the side of a building as it crawls from its spot to squash you like a bug, now's the time. You can destroy these with water.

Landscapes will attempt to draw your muse into their world, sealing them in their frames. Your muse will be helpless to do much other than look through the painting like a window. The only means of escape is to have someone else drag you out of the landscape!

In addition to these generic museum hazards, there are a few specific hazards depending on how your muse behaved in Part 1 of the event:

If your muse created something with love, adoration, feelings of happiness, or any other intensely positive emotions, it may help them instead of hinder them. This can be anything from alerting them of danger to protecting them.

Your muse's own creations may attack them, too, aside from the generic monsters in the museum.

If your muse stole any artwork from the museum, it will hunt them down with special vitriol and hostility, and will stop at nothing to destroy your muse.

Similarly, if your muse attempted to destroy any of the artwork in the museum, it's going to target them specifically and attempt to return the favor.

Any art your muse made as a gift to others will either hurt OR help them, depending on individual mun preference.

Have fun! :)

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Frequently Asked Questions

"How long will Part 2 of the event last?"

The event will run until 00:00, June 18th

"Are the optimized tools still here?"

Shockingly, yes! And so are the regular tools, too. How you use them to survive is up to you, but building a door might be the fastest way. However, be warned that drawing a door on a wall has just as big of a chance of sending your muse to a different random room than it does outside the museum.

"Can we still do Part 1 threads?"

Yes! If you would like to keep your Canvas experience monster-free, you can continue making Part 1 starters until the end of the event.

"What about the art my muse took home?"

It has also come to life! So while the museum is certainly dangerous, there are random statues, paintings, dolls and other monsters roaming around OUTSIDE the museum, too.

"Can we destroy the paintings NOW?"

Unfortunately, they're just as invulnerable as they were before. Bummer, huh? Unless they're hit with their specific weakness, the monsters are invulnerable to attacks that damage them. (However, they can still be hindered by traps, and while strong attacks won't destroy them, they'll knock them out of the way!)

"Can we interact with Capella or Janus?"

Poor Janus is trying to put all the artwork back where it belongs by capturing them. He's in no danger for this, as the art in the museum will not attack their curator. Interacting with Capella the Statue might bring the wrath of her giant cat out to you, so. You've been warned!

"What if my muse saw something from their own world in a painting or a statue?"

That's incredibly unfortunate--those might be hostile too, and are subject to the rules that follow the other genuine painting monsters (meaning that the portrait of that character will not have any of their original powers or abilities.)

Whether the subject of the art your muse is familiar with will help or hinder them is up to mun discretion.

"Can't we just bust down the museum and escape?"

And destroy the biggest piece of art in the area?! (No, they won't budge. You'll have to draw your way out if you want to escape, either through a door or some kind of tunnel or something.)

"When will the sun rise?"

Not for 24 hours in-character (though the event will last until Jun 11th). Extended night time, woo!

"What happens if our muses get got by the museum?"

Muses that were defeated and failed to survive the challenge will have their portrait put up on the Wall of Shame, reflecting how they lost the challenge. They won't respawn until the sun rises, either!

"What if I have a question that's not listed here?"

Feel free to direct any questions you may have to the Masterlist!

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

"I thought you said everything would be fine!" Came the panicked footsteps of Janus, running to grab the frame the portrait monster crawled out of, picking it up with surprising ease.

"In my defense, I assumed everything would be." The statue of Caelum replied, furrowing his eyebrows and scrolling through a wall of code. Other statues of a Goddess-like Pleiades and an Antiquated Attired Alathfar, joining as guests, seemed to realize the issue before their older companion did.

"...Yes, nothing in here changed. But I don't see anything about..."

From the other side of the stage, Capella's statue pranced forth, stickers still glittering in the dark, somehow.

"That's just the first page." "The first page?" Caelum and Janus echoed back in confusion. "First page!~"

The grin still stayed on her cheeks from sticker to sticker, while Janus' increasingly scrunched in accusation.

"...I'll be damned. There were two pages after all." "DAD!" "I didn't see it, honest!" "I can't BELIEVE you!" "Now now, it was an honest mistake, really--!"

And as the old man's statue got quite the scolding from his son, Pleides and Alathfar stepped aside, meeting with Capella.

"Was there really a page two?" Pleiades asked, adjusting her comically large, rounded glasses. To that, Capella merely rocked on her heels, smile never fading.

"It's entirely possible Caelum got so wrapped up in helping Janus plan the museum that he overlooked it. Which is endearing, in a way. But..."

As Alathfar trailed off, the three of them looked back at the other statue trying to placate his agitated son, and grimaced in unison (except for Capella, who still seemed to be beaming with delight.)

None of them seemed keen on getting in the middle of the quarrel, and were only relieved when Janus stormed off with his empty frame.

[yandere-daydreams]

Title: Caged.

Word Count: 2.0k

Written for an anonymous commissioner.

Synopsis: Yaoyorozu’s always loved your wings. She takes care of them, grooms them, keeps snow-white feathers clean and undamaged and just perfect... You just wish she took care of the rest of you, too. 

TW: Graphic Violence, Broken Bones, Kidnapping, Captivity, Dehumanization, and Delusional Mindsets. 

She’d said it hadn’t been because of your wings.

That was all she said for the first few weeks of your captivity, really. Momo was many things, but she wasn’t subtle, nor did she make an effort to watch her tongue around the civilian chained down and (more often than not) unable to respond to her one-sided conversations. She said everything a kidnapper could have to say about their hostage. She claimed that she fell in love with your personality, that she’d spent months dutifully noting down your interests and your hobbies and every piece of information that could be gleaned from careful surveillance. She told you that your wings were just a bonus, that they didn’t really matter, but they just made her precious, darling songbird a little easier to find.

But, for every second she spent singing your praises, she spent two gritting her teeth or crossing her arms or making it clear that she’d love you more if you were obedient, if you were affectionate, if you were different. Your hobbies faded into the background, considering how few opportunities she gave you to indulge them, and unless she was bringing home a gift to make up for the night you’d spent trying to cry yourself to sleep, she didn’t seem to pay your interests any mind. But, she gave your wings the utmost attention, keeping your snowy-white feathers pristine and taking far too much time to prune and pluck anything she didn’t deem ‘befitting’ of you. She adored your wings, she loved your wings, and she never hesitated to tell you that.

As much as she claimed they weren’t her motivation, she cared for your wings. She couldn’t deny that. 

That was more than she could say for the rest of you.

You supposed it wasn’t so bad, having her focus on one part of you so heavily, she tended to overlook most of your minor shows of rebellion. You were allowed to drag your knees into your chest and cling to the idea of safety as she looked over your wings, the appendages outstretched to their full length as Momo hummed and pulled at anything loose, anything bent, anything that wasn’t perfect. While she was perched on the edge of her bed, you were left to settle on the cold, barren floor and fight the chill your thin clothes did little to keep out. The basement - your bedroom, as she called it - was sizable, but the space was lost on you, considering how Momo chose to use it. After your last escape attempt, she’d declared furniture a ‘distraction’, something that took your attention away from her. You had a cot, just enough blankets to sleep, and whatever Momo thought was necessary for your basic survival. She’d said that you’d be able to earn things back, but that’d been weeks ago, and she seemed to like the way you were forced to look forward to her daily visits. She liked knowing she was the only thing on your mind.  

She liked making sure her pet had nothing better to do than beg for her attention.

“What’d you get yourself into?” She asked, drawing you out of your thoughts. The question was more for her than for you, posed under her breath, and yet, you couldn’t help but feel like you had to answer when every other word was accompanied by another tug, another feather at her feet. “It’s worse than usual, today.”

A dozen excuses played on your tongue. Last month, you’d told her it was molting season, and you’d managed to quell her worries by saying that this kind of damage was normal for avians in new environments before that, a trick that worked for longer than either of you would like to admit. You doubted she’d forget so quickly, so you settled on something simple. “It’s just the stress,” You explained, the statement only half untrue. “It makes maintenance harder than it has to be, but it looks worse than it is.”

That earned a pause, a more careless jerk to one of your primary feathers. “You’re stressed?” Now, she was talking to you, expecting an answer. Paying attention to the way your hands twitched at your sides every time her fingertips brushed a tender spot of lean, thin muscle. A hint of something playful traced the edges of her tone as she continued, and you weren’t sure whether to relax or reinforce your barriers. “Don’t say it’s because of me, angel.”

A pet name. Pet names were good. Pet names meant she didn’t see you as human, right now, making you another one of her infallible, unblamable creatures. It didn’t mean you could be honest, but you wouldn’t have to lie, either, not really. Not as much as you’d have to, otherwise. “It just happens,” You admitted, giving a noncommittal shrug. “Animal-based quirks are complicated, like that. When I’m inside for too long, or… like, when the room I’m in is too small, my wings tend to notice before I can.” You allowed yourself a breathy laugh, loosening your hold on your legs. “When I moved into my first apartment, my roommate had to start complaining before I--”

“You think I’m not taking care of you.”

If her words hadn’t been enough to silence you, the feeling of her fist closing around a handful of something downy and sensitive did the trick. Reflexively, you went rigid, stretching your wings out to their full length and bowing your head, but Momo’s threats were never hollow. With one strong, steady pull, a patch of your left wing was on fire, bare and blazing and burning as you slapped your palm over your mouth and tried to stifle the shriek that threatened to escape. You kept it there, for a moment, attempting to suppress the tears building up in the corners of your eyes, but Momo took your silence as resistance, a low growl reverberating through her grit teeth as she took hold of the base of your wing, the length of exposed bone between skin and feather. She didn’t squeeze, didn’t shatter, but the idea of the pain was worse than the eventuality, forcing your breath to hitch in your throat, your whole body to go stiff. Forcing her to hold you tighter, her irritation more than apparent in the sternness of her grip alone.

"It’s such a shame,” She started, a patronizing lilt weighing down the simple sentiment. You couldn’t see her, not when you were abruptly incapable of even turning your head, but you didn’t have to. You could practically hear her shaking her head, her expression somewhere between a frown and a pout as she lamented over whatever mistake her poor, stubborn little captive made, this time. “I really do try to be patient with you. There’s such a nice nest waiting for you upstairs, but it feels like I can’t let you out of your cage without having to worry about my baby bird trying to fly away.” There was a click of her tongue, a tap of her manicured nails against your shoulder blade. You felt her eyes prying into your skin, flitting across all the places your wings rooted themselves in place, as if she’d be able to tear them out with her gaze alone. For a moment, you wondered if she could. “Maybe if you stopped trying to get yourself into so much trouble, you’d wouldn’t have to be locked up. You’d be able to accept all the wonderful things I have to give you, and I wouldn’t have to watch you throw your tantrums and pretend I wouldn’t do anything to make you happy.”

“That’s not what I meant,” You managed, curling your nails into your palm as you willed yourself not to raise your voice. Yelling at Momo was never a good idea, and playing dumb would only make her more determined to remind you of your offenses, even if you couldn’t name the incident she seemed so focused on, today. “Please, Yaoyorozu, please, I didn’t mean to--”

“This is why I have to be so strict with you,” She sighed, her free hand falling to the arch of your wing, spreading the appendage to its full span. No longer giving you the chance to refuse. “You’re so quick to lie, and so slow to regret it. You don’t even know what you did wrong.”

You flinched, your lips parting, but your mind going blank as soon as you processed the accusation. Your stupor couldn’t have lasted for more than a few seconds, but a few seconds were more than enough for Momo to come to a resolution.

It wasn’t that she was stronger than she looked. She was, technically, but it wasn’t just that, it couldn’t have been. She’d done her research, she’d prepared, she’d practice, and you could only be thankful her new skill had been refined, polished into an undeniable talent, albeit a grisly one. There was a minute of pressure - crushing, awful pressure - and a snap, and then the pain.

Always the pain.

It was a clean break, halfway between the base of your wind and the bend, shock provided little comfort, adrenaline flowing in-time with the throbbing, the tight ache now coursing through your left wing, joints loosening in their sockets and tendons contracting in an effort just to keep something so broken where it should be. Resistance wasn’t an option. It was an animalistic  instinct that had nothing to do with your avian features, you were struggling before you could think to hold yourself back, willing your injured wing to fold against your back as you flailed, kicked, clawed, doing everything you could do to get away from the predator that was so content to watch you writhe in agony. Fighting was pointless, though. Momo didn’t try to restrain you, didn’t try to hold you back. Why would she? All the doors were locked, the windows nonexistent, and it wasn’t like you could actually hurt her.

There was nowhere for you to run, nothing for you to do.

In the end, there was nowhere to go but up.

It was difficult to get off the ground at the best of times, but you were desperate. As soon as you were on your feet, you were in the air, struggling to gain elevation without momentum, without an upward draft, without a single factor in your favor. It was hard, but it wasn’t impossible, even if every muscle in your back strained at the effort, your lungs burning and your uninjured wing taking up a frenzied speed just to get you a handful of meters off the floor. It must’ve looked pathetic, one wing struggling to keep you aloft and another, crooked and weak, twitching in an attempt to keep up with the pace its twin set, and it hurt so, so much, but you didn’t care. For a few seconds, Momo couldn’t reach you. For a few seconds, she couldn’t touch you and pull at your feathers and hurt you and…

And then, you hit the ceiling, and went plummeting back to the cold, unforgiving floor, as if you’d never left it at all.

Your shoulder took the brunt of your fall. It wasn’t far, but something in your arm still cracked as you collided with the solid cement, pulling a ragged sob from your chest that came out as broken as it was pitiful. You weren’t sure when you’d started crying, but suddenly, it was all you could do to curl into the tightest, smallest ball possible and hide your face, if only because you doubted you’d have the strength to wipe away the tears now blurring your vision. Momo didn’t seem to mind, though. She hadn’t taken a step since you’d gotten away from her, but that only meant she was still calm and collected and so, so composed as she kneeled at your side, barely nothing to brush your hair away from your face before her hands trailed back to your wings, always so eager to make sure her favorite parts of you weren’t more damaged than they had to be.

To make sure her favorite toy wasn’t beyond repair, after she’s had her fun.

“I hope you got some of your energy out,” She said, her tone sweet, but her voice devoid of all warmth. You’d say devoid of all love, too, but you were beginning to think Momo never had any to lose, in the first place. Not when it came to you.

“It’s going to take me hours to take care of all this damage. The least you could do is sit still, especially when I take such good care of you.”

[aliwritesfic]

Our Black Hearts Part 2 (F!Reader x Jack "Whiskey" Daniels)

Summary: You decide it's time to come clean to Jack about the man he's after

W/C: 2k

Warnings: None for this chapter I think, but please tell me if I missed something

Spotify

Part 1

You loved working the towns garden. The feeling of warm dirt in your hands, the feeling of accomplishment watching something go from seedling to edible vegetable in the span of just a few weeks. Hell, sometimes you even relished in the ache in your back after a long day. It let you know you were alive.

It was while you planted a new crop of carrots that you rehearsed what you were going to say to Jack when you saw him next. Hello, I hope you don’t kill me for not telling you as soon as I was sure, but I know who killed your wife, and I think I know where to find him, or at least how to find people who know where he would be. We good?

You frowned as you dug into the earth, unable to escape the guilt gnawing at your insides like a parasite. You know you should’ve told him the first morning, when you woke up encased in his arms. But the way the pale pre-dawn light played on his skin distracted you. Then he woke up and he really distracted you. Then a week passed, and you still hadn’t summoned up the courage to tell him, despite several more rendezvous with him. You knew it would be worse the longer you waited, a somehow larger betrayal.

Of course, you could just lie, tell him you weren’t sure, but that wasn’t in your nature. You hated to lie, and you were fucking terrible at it. You had been since childhood, unable to hide your secrets from the scrutinizing gaze of your mother. Now, every time you tried to lie, you remembered the sharp blow to the back of your head you would receive, and instead you chose to just avoid the truth.

Straightening your back, you turned your gaze toward the cloudless blue sky. It was nearing midday, the hottest and most dangerous hours to be outside would soon be upon you. Already people had sequestered themselves inside, the only ones who couldn’t were those patrolling the perimeter of the town. Large sheets of rusted metal had been erected along the perimeter; the only protection afforded to those who protected the town. It had once struck you as deeply unfair, but now you knew it was necessary. Too many stories of towns being attacked at the suns highest point had reached your ears, chilled you to the bone.

“Chase,” the use of your nickname snapped you out of your thoughts. You glanced behind you and saw Sparkie, the middle-aged man who oversaw the gardens waving to you. “Come inside before you get crispy.”

You obliged, abandoning your shovel in the dusty earth. It was only a couple degrees cooler inside the garden house but being in the shade made all the difference. The garden house was arguably the dirtiest building in the whole town, boot prints and stray tools littered the cracked tile floor, the entire thing smelt of fertilizer and no number of open windows could get rid of the stench. You sat yourself down on a plastic crate and turned your attention to the window.

In the distance you could see the perimeter wall of Deepwell, a single speck of a figure under the small metal sheet. No stupid hat, so it couldn’t have been Jack. You had learnt that he was assigned as a guardsman for the town, replacing the guard who had been brutally gunned down in a raid a month before he had arrived. At the thought of that, the image of the dead guard flashed in your mind – shot so many times in the face no one could identify them until a headcount of surviving guards had been taken. Her name had been Lydia, you found out later, and you hadn’t said more than three words to her.

~

A shrill whistle sounded in the distance, signalling it was safe to be in direct sunlight again. Jack stepped out from the small perimeter shelter and adjusted the grip on his rifle. He had learnt protocols during his first day of what was done directly after Midday. First, he had to make sure no one was trying to breach his appointed section of wall. Most days there was nothing, occasionally a pack of wild dogs or boar would be gathered drawn by the smell of living creatures. Once he had found a Skulker, barely clinging to life, sent crazy by sun and hunger and dehydration. Parts of her skin had melted away from time spent in the Toxic Plains, leaving shiny white bone. That had been an easy kill – a single bullet between the eyes before she had even realised he was there.

There was nothing today, only the ever-present patches dead earth and haze of heat on the horizon. Jack adjusted his dark glasses, traded a year back for a half blunt knife. They had become one of his most prized possessions, a saviour for his eyesight.

The next hour passed quietly on the outside of the wall. A single mutt had appeared briefly in the distance, Jack kept his gun trained on the creature until it had slinked away, disappearing over the horizon. He could’ve shot it, sent word to the fetchers about fresh meat, but the dog wasn’t worth the bullet. Its ribs and pelvis had stuck out from its body, more skin and bones than anything edible.

Sweat was beading down the back of his neck and dampening his shirt when relief finally arrived. His replacement was a burly teenager, arms criss-crossed with scars from a childhood spent living in the lawless no-mans-lands. Jack tipped his hat and handed the shotgun to the kid.

“Happy watchin’,” he said with an easy grin. The kid grunted in response, turning to face the vast nothing in front of them.

It was mid-afternoon, early enough for the water troughs to be devoid of most people and late enough that the water wouldn’t be boiling hot anymore. The troughs were close to the well for which the town was named, though the well was just a hole in the ground fenced off by frayed rope. It was the towns only source of clean water, so deep underground it took almost five minutes for it to be pumped up.

The troughs were worked by just one woman, who Jack thought probably had the worst job in the whole town. Keeping the troughs filled and clean, making sure the stores were stocked with enough for the townspeople to clean themselves with. Not to mention having to wash the clothes of anyone who asked. Jack avoided asking for as long as he could, only going to her when the stench became too much for him to be able to deal with on his own.

Today, fortunately, his clothes weren’t an issue. He stripped down, folding his clothes neatly before easing himself into one of the troughs. He dunked his head under the warm water, scrubbing at his scalp with his fingers. He didn’t have the luxury of soap today, having worn through his last bar before he could find a suitable trade for a replacement. Jack didn’t mind though – sometimes the water itself was enough to feel clean.

“Jack,” Chase was standing at the foot of his trough, hands on her hips. Well this is a nice surprise Jack thought as he sat up, pushing his wet hair back. Her face was shiny with sweat and streaked with dirt that seemed to attach itself to any available bit of skin.

“Hello, Doll.” He had taken to calling her that, preferring it to Chase. At least, he preferred it when he was trying to seduce her.

“I need to talk to you,” she said, and Jack’s blood ran instantly cold.

“You’re not – you know?” He gestured to her stomach. Chase looked down, confused, before realization dawned on her face.

“It’s been a week, Jack, Maker help me! No. Didn’t you learn anything about how babies are actually made when you were married?” Chase raised an incredulous brow at him. Jack shrugged. “I have a book on that, you should give it a read.”

Jack rubbed at his legs with a scrap piece of cloth, knowing he was not going to read that book. “So, what’d ya need, doll? Come to take another ride?” Chase rolled her eyes.

“No. I need to talk to you-” Chase hesitated, looking conflicted. “Look, just don’t hate me, please.” Jack sat forward, suddenly intrigued.

“Well, don’t leave me hangin’ in suspense,” Jack said.

“I know who killed your wife. I can find him.”

Jack’s ears rang for a moment, he wasn’t sure he heard correctly. “You . . .”

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” Chase crouched down next to the trough as she spoke, her eyes imploring him to understand. “I wasn’t sure it was him; I thought he was dead! But – but it’s too much of a coincidence.”

“Who is he? How do you know?” Jack tried to keep the pain out of his voice. How long has she known, he wondered, and not told him?

Chase at least had the decency to look ashamed. “He’s – his name is Elijah. He’s missing an eye because ten years ago I stabbed him, thought I killed him too. I tried to kill him!”

“Chase, who is he to you? Are you sure you can find him?”

“I can find him. I still have connections with his old crowd, someone there will know where he is.” Chase rubbed her face, somehow smearing on even more dirt. “If I tell you who he is . . . just don’t hold it against me, okay?”

“No promises,” Jack said.

“He’s my brother. Womb brother, actually.”

“You tried to kill your brother?” Jack was too shocked to feel angry. He was an only child, but from what he knew, the bond between siblings was one of the strongest, especially those bonded in the womb.

“You’ve met him,” Chase shrugged helplessly, “he’s – look I’m not gonna pretend that I deserve understanding for keeping this from you. But now I know he’s alive . . .” she trailed off, chewing on the inside of her cheek.

“Tell me where to find him.” Jack said.

“No, you need me.” Chase shook her head. “You won’t get far without me, I promise you that.”

Jack scoffed at her. “Don’t underestimate me.”

“I’m not, I’m being realistic. You don’t know Elijah like I do. He’s paranoid, delusional, he thinks he’s a fucking god. You won’t get within ten feet of him without someone blowing your brains out. If you’re serious about this revenge thing, you need me.”

Jack pushed himself out of the trough and began to dry off quickly in the sun. Still naked, he turned to face Chase, arms crossed over his chest. “And just why are you so damn insistent on comin’ with me? You could tell me what you know, I could hire any number of mercs who could get the job done better than you, and you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty . . . well dirtier than they already are.”

Chase took a deep breath, evidently to calm herself down. “I need to make sure what I started is finished. Someone has to kill Elijah, and I won’t be able to sleep until I know he’s dead.”

The look on her face told Jack she was completely serious. He considered for a few moments, pulling his clothes back on. If everything she said was true, he would need her help, to find Elijah, to get close enough to kill him. But –

“If you tried to kill him, how can you get close without you getting your head blown off?” Jack combed his fingers through his hair and secured it with his hat.

“He doesn’t know it was me. It’s a long story but you just have to trust me.”

Jack considered the woman standing in front of him. Of course, he didn’t trust her – it was stupid to trust anybody. But it was his only chance, he was beginning to realise, and she’d have to come along whether he wanted it or not. Which given his current mood regarding her keeping this from him, he did not.

“Alright, get your shit ready. I’m leaving at dusk.”

Tagging: @sharkbait77 @quica-quica-quica <3 <3

[philliamwrites]

Son cœur

Fandom: The Case Study of Vanitas (by Mochizuki Jun)

Pairing: Noé/Vanitas

Tags: #alternate chapter 16, #implied/referenced child abuse, #implied/referenced rape/non-con, #tragic past, #vanitas has like a bijillion problems, #and noé is one of them, #angst and feels, #blood drinking, #spoilers 4th manga

Words: 3.5k

Summary: Captured by the Chasseurs, Vanitas and Noé have to find a way out that hopefully doesn't end with Noé's head off and Vanitas's friend account of 1 being reduced by 1.

Son cœur 

    It was only fair to say everything was Noé’s fault.

    As much as Vanitas felt content with a useful shield like him, he felt incredible irritation more than anything else, and too close to burst at the seams with searing anger. Infiltrating the place of the Chasseurs had been way too easy. Lying came as natural to Vanitas as breathing, even though he sort of wondered about the spontaneity regarding the names he came up with. Gilbert and Vincent … well, worse names existed.

    In the end, Vanitas should have known. They had survived the Bal Masqué after all and even then Vanitas had been a first row spectator to the inimitable piece of art Noé Archiviste was. Noé didn’t just overthrow his principles and injure people or act ruthless. He’d rather let them crucify him if his sacrifice meant everyone's benediction, and now this very naiveté and lack of cold-heartedness caused their imprisonment.

    For someone drinking as much blood as Noé undoubtedly had over the span of his life, his soul was surprisingly clean—much the opposite of Vanitas’, who imagined a black, rotting canvas with deformed moths eating black holes into its fabric sitting in a dark corner hidden from the world’s greedy eyes.

    No better time for proof would occur again than this moment: Because Noé had refused to use Maria as a hostage, they had been captured and were now sitting in a bunker, surrounded by thick metal and no escape but the firmly sealed door opposite from Vanitas, waiting for their death.

    In moments like these Vanitas felt a suffocating hate towards Noé; this loathing clawed as a slithering, black ruin at his chest and tried to gutter him like a pumpkin; a monster searching for a way outside to set the world in flames, burning down towns and villages, perpetrators and victims alike. This thing and Vanitas were acquainted since a long time, it always felt like a reunion with an old friend rather than the surprise of a stranger standing in front of his door. And yet, what could he do?

    Physically, Vanitas was no match for Noé. Sure, he had the Book of Vanitas, but what would it use him to look for Noé’s true name and turn him into a Curse-Bearer. Both options would end in Vanitas experiencing a lot of pain he’d rather gladly pass on, so he pushed those thoughts far away and returned staring at Noé as if mere observating and a steely resolve were enough to solve why Noé acted the way he did. If there was one thing Vanitas hated more than the Vampire of the Blue Moon and questions about himself, it was questions about others he couldn’t simply answer with his observation skills only. And out of everyone, Noé ended up to be the best example.

    “Mon dieu, could you please stop jumping around and sit for a moment?” Vanitas demanded; his very first words since their imprisonment, because he’d been sure the first thing to come out of his mouth were obscene insults. Noé threw him a quick glance over his shoulder, his red eyes a dim glimmer in the barely lighted room.

    “If I sit, I can’t get us out of here,” Noé simply replied, then punched the metal wall again. The loud bang echoed through their cell. Somewhere at the back of Vanitas’ head a dull throbbing found its home and refused to leave.

    “So far, you are doing a miserable job in trying to free us, Noé,” Vanitas remarked with a bored expression, ignoring how smooth and easy Noé’s name usually slid over his lips, but now felt like a thick layer on his tongue trying to suffocate him. Vanitas draped himself on the ground to stretch his long legs, propping his chin on a hand. He closed his eyes and counted to ten to get a hold of himself and come up with a better plan, but only managed to reach three when another bang vibrated through his body, the dull throbbing wandering to his temples.

    “Noé,” he repeated, this time sharper. “Stop it. You’re wasting energy. Save it until the Chasseurs return. Until then, there is no way for us to escape.” Vanitas knew sometimes admitting defeat bore more results than clawing at impenetrable walls and ripping your fingers bloody in the process.

    “What are you talking about?” Noé’s voice rang out to Vanitas, clear as a bell despite his smooth and deep voice. Vanitas looked up. “There is always a way.”

    Without an immediate response, Vanitas couldn’t do anything but stare for a moment, taken aback because this was surely the third time or so Noé was able to struck Vanitas speechless. And Vanitas, usually so sure and knowing about the turmoil of his emotions (or lack thereof at times), was left with feelings he couldn’t quite place or decipher, and he wished for nothing else but to rip himself open and dissect every bit until he knew what foul play was at hand.

    The audacity of Noé holding that power without even realizing was quite infuriating.

    “Oh?” Vanitas didn’t even try to hide the mock in his voice. “Then please, be my guest and show me the way out.” Noé didn’t move (what else did Vanitas expect) but a familiar crease found its way between Noé’s pale eyebrows, signalling the boy’s brain at work.

    “Don’t overdo yourself using that pretty head of yours,” Vanitas offered with a crooked grin, but either Noé didn’t hear him or ignored the statement (both was fine because Vanitas couldn’t explain why he felt obliged to add the unnecessary last part) because he turned away, sinking down until he was hovering above the spot on the wall where his fist had left a dent. Vanitas stared at his back, his broad shoulders, the tips of his white hair curling at the base of his neck and thought, Do not turn away from me, Noé, and then with the same breath It is better you do not look at me with those eyes begging for allowance to save me. Vanitas closed his eyes, the soft lines of Noé’s shoulder blades against the dark fabric of his jacket still on his mind.

    “There is a way,” Noé repeated, and when Vanitas opened his eyes again, he met Noé’s watching him. “But you won’t like it.”

    “I won’t like it,” Vanitas repeated, turning Noé’s words a little, claiming them his own. Vanitas dropped his head from his hand, lowering it until the cool, smooth stone touched his forehead, and turned to his side so he was able to look better at Noé. “What exactly won’t I like about it, pray tell, Noé.” He really should stop saying Noé’s name so much.

    “I can break through this wall, but I need more strength,” Noé replied, straight to the case, (though sometimes Vanitas questioned the straight because he sure never missed how Noé’s eyes seemed to follow him a second longer than necessary; linger a little longer on the curve of his neck, the bow of his ankles and wrists, the arch of his calves). “And you can give me exactly what I need, Vanitas.”

    “And I can give you exactly what you need, Noé.” He really couldn’t stop saying Noé’s name so much. But that aside, Vanitas didn’t stop the bark of laughter exploding from his lips like a gunshot— a humourless and harsh sound caught between them in their steely cage. “Isn’t this convenient? We’re trapped and the only way to get out is by you drinking my blood!”

    “This isn’t convenient,” Noé objected, looking everywhere but at Vanitas. “I know you don’t want me to do it.”

    “‘Don’t want to,’" Vanitas said, "seems like the understatement of this century considering I said I will kill you should you ever drink my blood, Archiviste.” He noticed the small flinch in Noé’s shoulders, the glimpse of recognition in Noé’s eyes. The memory of their talk was so visible in Noé’s expression Vanitas expected to see blood all over him with how Noé wore his heart bluntly exposed on his sleeves.

    “You can do that after I get you out,” Noé said slowly. “It beats being killed by those vampire hunters.”

    Now, that was something interesting. In his line of job, Vanitas always paid attention to what people said and how they said it. So much meaning was left hanging in the air, so much ammunition to benefit from. And this one clearly said one thing. I don’t mind dying if it’s you killing me.

    Vanitas gifted Noé with one of his razor sharp smiles. “Oh, the things you say. Maybe I should really cut your head off once you get us out of here. I’m sure Roland will gladly lend me Durandal.”

    Surprisingly, Noé didn’t flinch. He probably already knew that for all the foul things Vanitas’ mouth spouted he only turned a few of them into action. And yet, Vanitas felt the familiar itch in his fingers demanding to see blood spilled at the atrocity they were to commit, and the only way of making it bearable was to mock the situation— an ability Vanitas was unrivalled at.

    He tapped a gloved index finger against his chin, not bothering to change his current position on the dirty ground. “Maybe I’ll let you if you ask nicely.”

    Noé waited a moment for Vanitas to follow with a more serious statement (clearly overestimating him), but when Vanitas remained silent, save for the mysterious little smile on his thin lips, Noé grew exasperated. “This isn’t a game, Vanitas,” he said.

    “Of course it isn’t.” Vanitas shrugged, playfully twirling a black strand of hair around his finger. "Doesn’t mean I don’t want to get something out of this and hear you beg for it.”

    Noé possessed enough dignity to roll his eyes at that. “Please let me drink your blood, Vanitas,” he said with a blank expression.

    Vanitas winked at him. “How about you invite me to dine first?”

    Noé groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Never mind. I should have known you would only make light of the matter.”

    “Because you know me oh so well, don’t you?” Vanitas inquired, not even trying to contain the venom dripping from his voice. Noé peeked at him from behind his long, slender fingers. He reminded Vanitas of a pet scolded by its owner and left to fend for itself.

    When Noé didn’t show any sign of commitment to his proposal, Vanitas grew impatient.

    “Noé,” Vanitas said. “Come here.”

    He didn’t move, so Vanitas repeated, “Noé.”

    Finally, he got up. His movement was careful but determined, and Vanitas wondered about the things Noé was actually afraid of and how his walk would change should he face it. He really ought to ask him about this Louis some day. It was impossible for this name to lack any significance with how often Noé claimed it in his sleep, body flinching and fingers clawing into the sheets in desperate search for hold.

    When Noé finally stood in front of him, Vanitas lazily lifted a hand like a fair maiden waiting for her lover to take the delicate hand and cover it with soft, feathery kisses. Only once Noé’s fingers grazed Vanitas’, he curled them around Noé’s hand (only now Vanitas noticed Noé’s knuckles bleeding from hitting the wall) and pulled him down. It wasn’t enough for Noé to lose his balance; it seemed more like he allowed Vanitas to pull him down which struck a nerve inside Vanitas and added more fuel to his annoyance regarding this whole situation.

    He propped himself on his elbows, cocking his head to the side and presenting his bare neck to Noé like a sacrificial lamb displayed for Gods to rip apart.

    “Very well,” he said quietly, looking up at Noé from under his thick curtains of black lashes. “Let us begin then.”

    Noé, much like a dog finally allowed to act with its master’s consent, leaned over Vanitas; a hand on his chest as Vanitas’ fingers danced over the black fabric of Noé’s uniform. The little sound escaping Noé’s lips when Vanitas flipped him over and straddled his lap was a small treasure Vanitas would wrap up and hide somewhere deep in his chest to unfold later to study.

    “Do you really think I’d make it that easy for you?” Vanitas snorted, leaving the  how stupid unsaid, but definitely palpable between them. He lifted his left hand and pulled the glove off with his teeth.

    “There are two conditions,” Vanitas said as his glove fell off, and he fought against the shudder dancing over his arm and taking over his whole body, telling (but not able to fool) himself it was from the cold in the cell rather than feeling exposed and naked without his glove. Noé nodded, and Vanitas raised one finger. “After you have drunk, you will say nothing.” Noé nodded again, so Vanitas raised the second. “After we get out of here, you will say nothing and should you ever try and so much as hint at talking about it, I will kill you.”

    Noé refused to look away, and Vanitas refused to yield to this want of stripping bare to his inner core in front of those piercing red eyes. Should Noé ever get a good look at what lurked beneath Vanitas’ smooth, alabaster white skin, he'd only find worms and cockroaches scurrying around spoiled, rotten soil Gaia herself wouldn’t even weep for.

    “Tell me you understood what I just said,” Vanitas demanded, hovering over Noé’s face.

    Noé exhaled slowly, the tip of his tongue darting over his lower lip. Vanitas wanted to punch him.

    “I won’t talk about it,” he said, and because he was Noé  of course  he had to add, “Not until it is of your own accord.”

    This time, Vanitas’ face lacked his usual malicious glee. Through half-lidded eyes, he considered Noé what felt like painfully slow passing minutes, though it were only a few seconds later when he said, “It won’t and you better be careful of expecting it if you value your life.”

    Noé swallowed, but Vanitas couldn’t tell if it was because of his deadly promise or the hunger just before anticipating a meal, and in the end he didn’t really care.

    “Well then.” Vanitas offered Noé his left bare arm. “Bon appétit.”

    To his credit, Noé didn’t immediately go down on him (though Vanitas caught glimpses of wishes in his mind of Noé going down on him) and first took careful hold of Vanitas’ bony wrist as if he was allowed to carry the world’s most precious treasure between his fingers (which was just really unnecessary because Noé should know that for someone with slim wrists Vanitas was surprisingly strong). He pushed a thumb against the inside of Vanitas’ wrist and Vanitas dared ihm with his blank expression to comment on the stumble of his heartbeat before it returned to its natural rhythm, but Noé wasn’t even looking at him, focusing way too much on simply feeling Vanitas’ pulse for a moment, and surprisingly Vanitas felt himself grow impatient. He didn’t know slow or careful or soft, only hard and painful and too fast for him to accommodate to the pain, the fears, the hopelessness.

    “Noé, I swear to God, if we don’t get this ov—“ The pain of teeth breaking his skin shouldn’t be that much of a foreign feeling to Vanitas, and yet he couldn’t stop himself from flinching, or gritting his teeth, or subconsciously leaning his upper body away from this vampire; no from Noé drinking blood from his wrist. But it was only the very first seconds that were uncomfortable, then the substance from Noé’s teeth lessening the pain numbed Vanitas’ skin and he closed his eyes, unable to (and he didn’t want to, really) fight against the poison now pumping through his body begging him to let himself relax and just become an animal’s meal; to surrender, and maybe if it was Noé, it would be fine.

    Vanitas snickered to himself, swearing to drive his own fingers into his eyes should he continue to think ridiculous things like that. “What would Dominique think looking at you now, clinging to a filthy human, hm?” Vanitas leaned forward again, over the slightly hunched figure of Noé still drinking and sucking and licking, and he wondered which of the countless tragic pages composing Vanitas’ short, miserable life Noé flipped through right now. Did he see Vanitas’ young, small figure standing in front of his dead parents, blood all over the place but not where it was supposed to be— in his mother’s body, and in his father’s body and how could one simple man even carry so much blood inside of him—and little Vanitas not understanding what had happened. Or maybe he saw Vanitas’ early times starting as an experiment of Doctor Moreau, this time being the one bleeding all over the research table, just before Moreau started to see Vanitas in his room, undressing and examining him which he’d usually conducted at nights before starting to do so midday as well (it would certainly be entertaining to see Noé’s reaction should they manage to find the mad scientist). Maybe Noé was currently chasing Vanitas fleeing from the Vampire of the Blue Moon, the dark grimoire clutched tightly to his chest like a life line with a horrified expression Noé surely couldn’t even dream of Vanitas possessing, listening to his repeating “I abandoned him, I abandoned him, he is dead, please God forgive me” over and over again—his first and last prayer to God. “What would she think indeed, mon cheri,” Vanitas whispered. Something warm fell on his skin, and he didn’t need to see to know, because what else did he expect from someone like Noé.

    “My, my.” Vanitas couldn’t help but laugh quietly, wondering if Noé in his frenzy heard the surrender in this fragile sound. He placed his free, still gloved hand on Noé’s head and combed with this fingers through Noé’s hair, patting at it and smoothing it back into straight lines falling in front of his face. “You are such a crybaby. I am quite certain de Béranger wrote his music with people like you in his mind.” Son cœur est un luth suspendu; Sitot qu’on le touche il resonne. His heart is a posed lute; as soon as it is touched, it resounds.

    Just how could Noé still bring up the energy to care. His heart was open. Never closed, never locked. It needed no key, and Vanitas felt quite displeased with how easy Noé welcomed strangers to his heart.

    Finally, Noé released Vanitas’ wrist, but he remained seated, his head hanging low, so Vanitas had to dip his own in search for scarlet red eyes; lacking any interest in tending his wound crying blood all over his arm and jacket. He curled his fingers around Noé’s wet cheeks and lifted his head, trying to ignore the curtain of tears in those pretty ruby mirrors, but it was hard because mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

    “Now, I hope you better have learned something from this,” Vanitas said, dragging his left thumb across the corner of Noé’s lips where his blood hung still fresh, but oh so scandalously fitting against Noé’s dark skin that it was truly a piece of art. He pushed his thumb against Noé’s lips, painting them red. “Do never ask me of this again. Even in the depths of hell with you drinking my blood as our only way of salvation, do not ask me of this, Noé,” Vanitas whispered against Noé’s lips in what he clearly saw a cruel mockery and threat, when really Vanitas would rather remain with Noé in hell until the world succumbed to its own rotten core, side by side— which was ridiculous and stupid, because people like Noé didn’t end up in hell like Vanitas. They remained eternal because Gods sacrificed their immortality in show of devotion, and Vanitas would be a hypocrite to accuse them of idiocy.

    But what had the Gods given to him? They’d made him a walking disaster, consisting of the lethal combination of an urge for self destruction and a preference for collateral damage, and the only thing Vanitas himself thought about this was, Then so be it, because if I cannot reach heaven, I will raise hell.

    True to his word, Noé didn’t say anything.

    In fact, he didn’t speak at all after tearing down the wall of their cell with one single punch and gaining Roland’s help in locating Doctor Moraeu, but just one look into his eyes was enough for Vanitas to see what sort of storm caused havoc inside him and uprooted the foundation of Noé’s innocence and benevolent beliefs, and he thought mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

Gardez vos dons : je suis peureux. Mais si d’un zèle généreux Pour moi le monde vous soupçonne, Sachez bien qui vous a vendu : Mon cœur est un luth suspendu, Sitôt qu’on le touche, il résonne.

[Pierre-Jean de Béranger]

[sepublic]

My Coven Head Autobiography Dream

           Last night I had an incredibly insane dream. It was one of those really huge, spanning dreams with transitions that make no sense, but within the dream you never questioned it, and multiple phases and ‘arcs’ that are completely disconnected. But one part in particular caught my attention, because…

           There was a bit where I was in this HUGE library for this university of sorts. Emira and Edric were trying to do some sort of inane project/assignment for the Head of the Oracle Coven (dunno why, they’re in Illusions) and of course they can’t do anything about him putting them through a ton of frustrating antics. The assignment was for Edric technically, but Emira felt obligated to help out, and also because Edric begged her; As did KING, because it was an assignment for King AND Edric? They were doing this together? Within the dream, I was glad to see those two interact, it was an interaction and dynamic I hoped to see, but regardless… 

          There was a bit where far off, Emira spotted a book they were looking for and lashed out with an illusion lasso like from Adventures in the Elements, snagging onto it before anyone else could take it, as she reached out with all of her strength, stretching her arm so Edric and King could grab it; Only to realize it was the wrong book, the actual book was on the other side of the shelf as she was exasperated and frustrated with the two.

            Eventually they got past the Oracle Head’s smugness over the thing, and once the assignment was done, they were no longer beholden to him- So then the twins began tormenting the Oracle Head with their illusions and pranks. While that dude was trying to survive, I remembered something I saw in the midst of the twins and King’s antics in the library, and I glimpsed what seemed to be an autobiography… But with the Oracle Head’s face on it, complete with his sharp-toothed grin! I went around the shelf and located it and was ecstatic for the lore;

           It WAS an autobiography from him, with his name something along the lines of B-something, Van something-ican. I can’t remember the exact name, alas. The first few pages curiously showed an illustration and description of the Oracle Head’s daughter, some very goth, emo, edgy teenager; Who was now dead! And I wondered if the Oracle Head was aligned with Belos to resurrect his daughter, and/or if his study in Oracle magic had something to do with communing with the dead, in this case his deceased child…

           Anyhow I went on, as I got a closer look at the Oracle Head with an illustration. He had a necklace with large orbs strung on it, each one with a swirl-like pattern, each somewhat distinct. Morbidly, the Oracle Head explained that in the past, he’d done multiple campaigns to get elected for a certain position; I don’t think the dream specified, but it was probably for his placement as Head of the Oracle Coven. Turns out, each time he campaigned, he sacrificed another witch’s soul to create one of those orbs, which would grant him good luck and protection- But the orb only lasted until the election was over. Lo and behold, the Oracle Head failed a couple of elections, so he had to go through multiple souls before he finally succeeded…

           It was some ghastly stuff, and I wondered if one of those orbs was made from his daughter’s soul; If despite his remorse and regret, the Oracle Head sacrificed his own child just to succeed! And I wondered if this was meant to be some dark parallel between him and Lilith, who both threw a loved one under the bus- But Lilith never went that far and didn’t always meant to, at least… The Oracle Head, on the other hand, had the audacity to go through with it anyway, and then mourn his fallen daughter as if HE hadn’t killed her! Likewise, I speculated as to why the Oracle Head held onto his previous orbs, now that they were burnt out; As a tribute to those who’d given their lives for him, unwillingly? Or as some sick and twisted trophy of victory?

           I rushed to the TOH wikia –because I was somehow a part of and separate from the in-universe world- and I was the first to record the lore dump from the Oracle Head’s autobiography. As I got to work learning how to cite sources and whatnot, I wondered if perhaps all of the other Coven Heads were like this, as dark parallels to Lilith… What if they had ALL been young witches, who were faced with a moral dilemma to achieve a dream; And like Lilith, they remembered what Belos said about greatness requiring sacrifices, and so went through with it? The exact circumstances and heinousness of their ‘sacrifices’ likely varied, with some more guilty and remorseless than others, but the underlying them was the same; Lilith could’ve been them, and vice-versa. Each Head was influenced as a kid to do that, to follow in Belos’ footsteps…

           Anyhow, I became obsessed with finding the rest of the autobiographies for each Coven Head. I consulted a science teacher from an earlier part of my dream (she vaguely resembled my eight-grade science teacher), and she explained in a mystical, mysterious tone that while these books were in the school, no one had ever found them, hidden as they were amidst countless other books and whatnot; But I surmised that if it was alphabetically ordered, then I just needed to use the names of the Coven Heads I knew for reference! I only knew one another Coven Head’s name, the head of the Plant Coven; Botanica, a name that was actually from some other franchise I knew in real life, that had found its way into my dream. I reasoned that Botanica’s autobiography should be near the Oracle Head’s because they both started with a B.

           The teacher was impressed and decided to be level and give me a hint on my quest; Botanica’s autobiography was actually elsewhere. She gave me a hint or two about it not being in the library, outside, and I ‘remembered’ (I’d never actually encountered this location before in my dream) a small little garden outside, on the outskirts of the building. I rushed off, hitched a ride on some giant wagon-transport travelling around the building, and hopped off to a humble little area with a few benches and little stairs leading up to one another, and a BUNCH of fallen leaves.

           I knew I had to do a bunch of side quests essentially to unlock these autobiographies, and I guess also out of the goodness of my heart, I began to help clean up the leaves and dump them into a bin. Another witch showed up, SHE resembled a piece of fanart I’d seen earlier in real life of this other character (I have it saved on my phone), and she was clearly affiliated with Botanica, possibly an aide or apprentice. She noted my good work and began to help me, and it was clear that this would lead to an encounter with Botanica herself, or at least her autobiography as a sidequest reward. I got the feeling that despite being affiliated with Belos, Botanica legit had a loving, nurturing care for her plants, and I wondered how this conflicted and worked with Belos’ crueler conquests and control. Did Botanica ally with Belos because his coven system would protect her plants? I wasn’t sure.

           …Anyhow, then I woke up, etc. It was an incredibly surreal dream that makes me all the more eager to get to know the Coven Heads, their relationship to Belos, their backstory, their motives and whatnot, how they feel about Lilith and vice-versa; And any potential parallels between characters among them.

[just-a-fangirl13]

MacGyver s5 theories..Time jump? MacRiley? Trust issues and more

OKAY! So we finally got our first (3) SNEAK-PEEKS at 5x01 and I have soo many thoughts.

Here are the links incase you missed it: https://just-a-fangirl13.tumblr.com/post/636474561109639168/the-new-sneak-peeks-for-macgyver-5-01-are-out

Firstly let’s talk about the elephant in the room...The TIME JUMP....? 

MacGyver writers really like their time jumps. From season 3 to season 4 we lost about 18 months, and in that span of time the Phoenix shut down, Mac and Desi dated, lived together, had a pet? and a “nuclear breakup” and then proceeded to live their lives, Riley also started seeing someone then moved in and had been living with him (Aubrey) for about 6 months and of course Bozer directed his own movie. So clearly a lot happened.

This 10 month jump might not be as eventful (or can it be?!) since it seems that the writers have included the pandemic into the storyline. Now if the characters were quarantined like we were I have tons of questions..

IS THE PANDEMIC OVER IN THEIR WORLD? WAS IT A DIFFERENT KIND OF PANDEMIC OR COVID? WHAT ARE THE REPERCUSSIONS?

DID THEY STILL GO ON MISSIONS? or were they literally just doing nothing like the rest of us? *I wonder if Mac burnt down the house....hehhehe*

DID RILEY MOVE OUT? or was she stuck quarantining with Mac and Desi?

DID MAC AND DESI BREAK UP? I cannot imagine them quarantining together for 10 months and maintaining their sanity. 10 months is a long time for MacDesi and if they survived it... It is possible them breaking up this second time around (for MacRiley to happen) just got a whole lot more complicated.

So there are 2 possibilities because we know Mac and Riley have to happen at some point RIGHT?!! *I WILL LOSE IT IF THEY DONT*

1. Mac and Desi broke up a few months in and this press release photo has more going on then meets the eye. At face value it seems like Mac and Desi might still be dating but I doubt that very much. Why? ill talk about that in a minute. Also if they broke up a few months (into the 10) that would leave sufficient time for Mac to get his head back in the game and if he and Riley happened then she wouldn't look like a rebound. (OH GOD PLEASE BE THIS!!)

2. Mac and Desi haven't broken up but knowing their track record they haven't exactly had a smooth 10 months. Now this would mean that when they do break up eventually, (there is a certain chance they may not at all and MacDesi might be endgame...NOOO) we will actually see it happen but I dont know why the writers would want to risk pulling the show down by anchoring Mac and Desi in this chaotic relationship not a lot of us are even fans of and slowing down the whole timeline of things. This is the theory I am not a big fan of but I guess we will know in the next 48 hours.

Okay now that we have the relationships out of the way lets talk about the plot.

We know Codex isn't done yet. LeLand is still out there and they seem to be the main focus this season. Again we dont know much about this and only time will tell. 

The team does seem to be back and going on their usual missions but you have to remember there are around 4-6 episode from the original season 4 that never aired (due to covid). Plus the show runner changed so it will now be an alternation between the old s4 episodes that are definitely more Codex focused and the usual missions that might somehow tie into the big picture (even if they dont im not complaining!) This will give them time to develop the other plot lines and hopefully give us some happy moments too! (can we not kill anymore of Mac’s blood relatives? oh wait THEY ARE ALL ALREADY DEAD!!)

Another HUGE THING that I am very happy that the writers decided to tackle in terms of inter personal drama is trust issues.

As we all know when Mac kinda-sort-of went rogue towards the end of season 4, Riley was the only one who had complete faith in him while Matty and Bozer knew there was clearly more going on....BUT Russ and Desi didn't stop for even a second to consider that Mac might be doing the right thing. 

Now you have to know this. Russ and Desi are not only new to the team but the world is very black and white for them. (Desi more than Russ actually) While Russ did some very gray area things he always thinks like a soldier just like Desi. For them people are mostly good or bad. You cant do (kinda) bad things for good reasons.

As we saw in the sneak peek where Russ doubts Mac and Mac gives Russ a piece of his mind about not trusting him, there is definitely a lot of conflict going on. (I expect Mac to have the same issue with Desi because if I remember clearly unlike Russ, Desi never apologised to Mac about holding him at gunpoint. How pronounced that issue is and if Mac and Desi break up because of it..only time will tell.) 

I have to say though Mac telling Russ off was pretty amazing. It seems like he’s finally talking his mind and not taking shit from people. I cant wait to see more of sassy Mac!!! (wonder what brought that out...hmmmmmmmhmmm)

The events of season 4 are definitely going to influence a lot of what happens in season 5 and I cant wait!! Less than 48 hours to go!!!!!!

P.S. One more quick thing. Everyone has been saying that since MacGyver now has a LA unit Jack might be back since George Eads wanted to be closer to LA but all the shooting for MacGyver happened in Atlanta so that problem might have been resolved (I dont know how likely or unlikely that is its just something that came to my attention).

Also our favourite psychopath aka Murdoc could show up in S5 too since David Dastmalchian the actor who portrays Murdoc is also in LA right now (or at least he was till the 29th of Nov) along with Meredith Eaton for whom travelling to Atlanta is dangerous because she has several health issues. (I am happy they haven't written her out completely just because of COVID) We shall just have to wait and watch!

[theresabookforthat]

National Poetry Month Celebrates 25 Years!

Happy National Poetry Month – the largest literary celebration in the world! 2021 marks 25 years since the Academy of American Poets launched National Poetry Month in April, 1996. The choice of April was inspired by the first line of T.S. Eliot’s “The Wasteland”: “April is the cruellest month…”

Ushering in a new appreciation for the power of poetry is Amanda Gorman and her inaugural poem THE HILL WE CLIMB. Clearly, there’s no wasteland when it comes to poetry at Penguin Random House. Whether your proclivities are for free, blank or rhyming verse, lyrical poetry, prose poems, sonnets, elegies, odes… We’ve got it all! Here are just some of the astounding poets, a range of brilliant voices, we’ve published in the past year:

THE HILL WE CLIMB: AN INAUGURAL POEM FOR THE COUNTRY by Amanda Gorman; Foreword by Oprah Winfrey

Amanda Gorman’s powerful and historic poem “The Hill We Climb,” read at President Joe Biden’s inauguration, is now available as a collectible gift edition.

INDEX OF WOMEN by Amy Gerstler

From a “maestra of invention” (The New York Times) who is at once supremely witty, ferociously smart, and emotionally raw, a new collection of poems about womanhood.  Women’s voices, from childhood to old age, dominate this new collection of rants, dramatic monologues, confessions and laments. A young girl muses on virginity. An aging opera singer rages against the fact that she must quit drinking. A woman in a supermarket addresses a head of lettuce. The tooth fairy finally speaks out. Both comic and prayer-like, these poems wrestle with mortality, animality, love, gender, and what it is to be human.

GOD I FEEL MODERN TONIGHT: POEMS FROM A GAL ABOUT TOWN by Catherine Cohen

In these short, captivating lyrics, Catherine Cohen, the one-woman stand-up chanteuse who electrified the downtown NYC comedy scene in her white go-go boots, details her life on the prowl with her beaded bag; she ponders guys who call you “dude” after sex, true love during the pandemic, and English-major dreams. “I wish I were smart instead of on my phone,” Cat Cohen confides. A Dorothy Parker for our time, a Starbucks philosopher with no primary-care doctor, she’s a welcome new breed of everywoman—a larger-than-life best friend, who will say all the outrageous things we think but never say out loud ourselves.

FINNA: POEMS by Nate Marshall

Sharp, lyrical poems celebrating the Black vernacular—its influence on pop culture, its necessity for familial survival, its rite in storytelling and in creating the safety found only within its intimacy. Finna explores the erasure of peoples in the American narrative; asks how gendered language can provoke violence; and finally, how the Black vernacular, expands our notions of possibility, giving us a new language of hope:

AN INCOMPLETE LIST OF NAMES: POEMS by Michael Torres, Raquel Salas Rivera

An astonishing debut collection looking back on a community of Mexican American boys as they grapple with assimilation versus the impulse to create a world of their own. When Torres returns to his hometown to find the layers of spray-painted evidence he and his boyhood friends left behind to prove their existence have been washed away by well-meaning municipal workers, he wonders how to collect a list of names that could match the eloquent truths those bubbled letters once secured.

LEAN AGAINST THIS LATE HOUR by Garous Abdolmalekian, Idra Novey, Ahmad Nadalizade…

The first selection of poems by renowned Iranian poet Garous Abdolmalekian to appear in English, this collection is a mesmerizing, disorienting descent into the trauma of loss and its aftermath. In spare lines, Abdolmalekian conjures surreal, cinematic images that pan wide as deftly as they narrow into intimate focus. Time is a thread come unspooled: pain arrives before the wound, and the dead wait for sunrise.

OWED by Joshua Bennett

Bennett’s new collection, Owed, is a book with celebration at its center. Its primary concern is how we might mend the relationship between ourselves and the people, spaces, and objects we have been taught to think of as insignificant, as fundamentally unworthy of study, reflection, attention, or care. Spanning the spectrum of genre and form—from elegy and ode to origin myth—these poems elaborate an aesthetics of repair.

LITTLE BIG BULLY by Heid E. Erdrich

Little Big Bully begins with a question asked of a collective and troubled we – how did we come to this? In answer, this book offers personal myth, American and Native American contexts, and allegories driven by women’s resistance to narcissists, stalkers, and harassers. These poems are immediate, personal, political, cultural, even futuristic object lessons. Here, survivors shout back at useless cautionary tales with their own courage and visions of future worlds made well.

THE NIGHTFIELDS by Joanna Klink

A new collection from a poet whose books “are an amazing experience: harrowing, ravishing, essential, unstoppable” (Louise Glück)

ASYLUM: A PERSONAL, HISTORICAL, NATURAL INQUIRY IN 103 LYRIC SECTIONS by Jill Bialosky

Taken together, these piercing pieces—about the poet’s nascent calling as a writer; her sister’s suicide and its still unfolding aftermath; the horror unleashed by World War II; the life cycle of the monarch butterfly; and the woods where she seeks asylum—form a moving story, powerfully braiding despair, survival, and hope.

BLACK GIRL, CALL HOME by Jasmine Mans

This coming-of-age collection from spoken word poet Jasmine Mans presents unforgettable poetry about race, feminism, and queer identity. With echoes of Gwendolyn Brooks and Sonia Sanchez, each poem explores what it means to be a daughter of Newark, and America—and the painful, joyous path to adulthood as a young, queer Black woman.

COLLECTED POEMS by Sonia Sanchez

A literary event! Spanning four decades, here is a representative collection of the life work of the much-honored poet and a founder of the Black Arts movement. As Maya Angelou so aptly put it: “Sonia Sanchez is a lion in literature’s forest. When she writes she roars, and when she sleeps other creatures walk gingerly.”

 For more on these and other acclaimed poetry titles visit: National Poetry Month

Want a poem to arrive each day in your inbox for the month of April? Sign up for 

Knopf’s Poem-a-Day and be amazed! And visit The Academy of American Poets

 for more National Poetry Month activities, initiatives, and resources.

[momentofmemory]

FICTOBER 2020 - day twenty-five

Prompt #25: “Sometimes you can even see.”

Fandom: The Old Guard

Characters: Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani

Words: 1937

Author’s Note: In the aftermath of a rough mission and all the philosophical questions it entails, Joe takes Nile to the Aarhus Art Museum in Denmark. All pieces mentioned were displayed in the Objects of Wonder: From Pedestal to Interaction exhibit, which ran from Oct. 2019- March 2020. Nile POV.

>> the sweetness remains

Nile scrolls mindlessly through Pinterest, wishing for not the first time that she’d been allowed to recreate her socials.

Copley had barred her from practically all of the actually useful ones, but she’d bullied him down to just having an account on Pinterest, with the argument being that no one cared about the site. Granted, she doesn’t really want to be on Pinterest either, but sometimes the comfort of an app with infinite scroll is all she’s looking for in a distraction.

And right now, she really, really needs to be distracted.

Overly photoshopped cat pics.

Memes ripped straight from tumblr or twitter.

The most white girl aesthetic imaginable.

Three slugs ripping through her abdomen and spitting her liver out the other side—

Nile breathes in sharply. Exhales.

Her thumb resumes scrolling.

Photos of downtown that feel like home.

Recipes for harvest butternut squash soup.

Tips for keeping braids fresh longer.

Nile scrolls, and scrolls, and breathes.

Her abdomen still aches every time her lungs expand, even though she knows it really doesn’t. It’s perfectly healed; not even a scar for her troubles. But it’s hard to forget how her instincts had screamed that a gut shot like that shouldn’t be survivable, even as she pushed herself towards the next target.

(She didn’t survive it.)

(She didn’t survive the next half dozen times it happened, either.)

“Did that phone of yours do something to offend you?”

“Whoa!” Joe’s sudden appearance next to her only makes her clench her phone tighter. She forces out a laugh and eases the tension out of her fingers. “Feel like you should know better than to sneak up on someone that’s part of a bunch of immortal warriors.”

“Most of them would have caught me coming long before you did.”

Nile snorts. She scrolls a few more seconds, then closes the app and opens Temple Run. The game’s ridiculously old, but she’s a millennial. Sue her for being nostalgic.

She can feel Joe watching her as she starts the round.

“Am I correct in thinking you enjoy the arts, Nile?”

It’s not the question she was expecting, and she winds up tilting the screen to the left a half second late, and her character falls off the bridge.

It’s okay though, because she can just use a gem and respawn in the same place, so it’s basically like not dying at all.

Right?

“Uh, yeah,” she says. She winds up restarting the round entirely. “The military was supposed to pay for my degree, but I don’t think I can cash that if I’m technically KIA.”

“That would present a certain set of problems,” Joe agrees. “Andy talk to you about that?”

“Yeah.” Nile’s stomach twists. “Guess it depends on how easy it is to schedule classes between firefights.”

She’s practically laying the opening for a talk out herself, but Joe seems uninterested in taking it.

Instead, he shifts beside her, propping an elbow on his knee. “What kinds of art did you want to specialize in?”

She dies again. This time, she begrudgingly uses the in-game save. "I prefer classic sculpture, but I’m not against modern.”

“You like what was modern art for me, then.”

Nile rolls her eyes. “I dread the day I become as weird as you guys.”

He laughs, patting her on the shoulder as he stands. “I suspect by that time you’ll be too busy tormenting our next recruit. But unfortunately, the exhibit we’re going to will be more in the contemporary style.”

It takes Nile a half second to register his words. “Wait, what?”

“The description said it would be 1960s to the present only. If it suits you, we could hold off on our discussion of it for another thousand years or so. I’m sure we can claim it as classic at that point.”

“What?” Nile locks her phone and zeros her attention on him, registering the mischievous glint in his eyes this time. “Museum?”

“The Aarhus Art Museum has a special exhibit on loan from the Tate Modern at the moment.” He glances down at her phone, the corner of his mouth forming a grin. “I’m told its purpose is to help move its audience’s attention from their devices.”

Nile scowls and looks back down at her phone. “I died a dozen times yesterday. I’m allowed my coping mechanisms of choice.”

And.

Whoops.

“Of course you are,” Joe says, offering his hand to her, and she’s once again surprised he doesn’t force the conversation. “But phones are portable. You can take it with you to the museum.”

Nile worries at the edge of her lip with her teeth. She doesn’t really want to go anywhere right now, but…

But Joe’s brown eyes are warm and welcoming, and his callouses help steady her when she takes his hand.

“You said contemporary sculpture?”

The grin he gives her is blinding. “For now.”

_________________

It’s a twenty-five minute drive from their safe house to the museum, and the route takes them next to the Bay of Aarhus for most of it.

Nile stares out at the water, determined to not give Joe any more ammunition for making fun of her regarding her phone.

It’s hard. She’d never considered herself a technology addict—never had enough time to be one—but she really, really wants to stop thinking about the fact that she knows what the inside of her liver looks like.

Or did look like, she guesses.

Nope, nuh-uh, not going there—

“D'you know about the Ship of Theseus?” She spits it out before she can decide against it. She figures if she’s thinking about it, she might as well talk about it. “And don’t say you were there for it. You’re not Andy and I at least know enough about you to know when you’re lying.”

The grin on his face tells her that he was very much intending to before she called him out on it. “It’s a thought experiment. The character Theseus owns a ship that, over a long span of time, has all of its parts replaced, until nothing of the original still remains.”

“Yeah, and so then the question is, is it even the same ship,” Nile finishes.

Joe weaves in and out of traffic, a pensive look on his face. “I assume you aren’t asking simply to test my knowledge of early western philosophy.”

“No.”

Nile looks down at her hands. She can still remember how horrifically mangled they were from her impromptu dive off a skyscraper, but at least—at least she’s pretty sure they’re the same ones she had before.

Though that might not last long.

“In your opinion,” she says, cautiously, “if—if there’s nothing left of the original—if you have to rebuild something that many times—”

“Nile.” The sound of the car’s turn signal distracts her spiraling thoughts. Joe nods towards the windshield. “We’re here.”

It’s a large, red brick square building, fairly nondescript but for the circular and multi-colored glass walking track at its top.

“Come on, he says, parking the car. “I find physical objects superior to mental ones for solving such issues.”

Nile doesn’t understand why the one time she wants to talk about something like this is the one time Joe decides to go full mysterious.

She climbs out of the car and follows him inside.

Despite her misgivings, she quickly discovers Joe was right. The exhibit is genuinely incredible, and there are pieces from multiple names she recognizes—Anish Kapoor, Donald Judd, Rasheed Araeen—and pieces she finds herself strangely moved by, such as Damian Hirst’s Away from the Flock, Richard Long’s Red Slate Circle, Rachel Whiteread’s Airbed II. Nile stares at that last one in particular for a long time: a concrete casting of an airbed, the artist’s presence made known in the negative space where her body had pressed the material down.

Joe, however, seems to be moving with a specific purpose in mind, and it’s not until they round one of the walls of the orange-pink room that Nile has a guess as to what it is.

In the far corner, bathed in the additional light of a single fill light, is a massive pile of multicolored cellophane wrapped hard candies.

Joe walks her over to it, an almost reverence to his steps.

“Untitled: Portrait of Ross in LA,” he says. “Are you familiar with the piece?”

She shakes her head, bending down to inspect it. It doesn’t look like much more than what she’d seen from a distance—candy, multicolored, on the floor. She looks to Joe for an explanation.

“Felix Gonzalez-Torres’s partner died from AIDS,” Joe says. The grief on his face is hard to look at. “To honor him, he made this as a portrait—one hundred and seventy-five pounds of candy, representing Ross’s weight from when he was still healthy.”

Nile looks at the pile—it’s a lot, but it’s not a hundred and seventy-five pounds worth of a lot.

Joe notices her confusion and smiles. “Take one.”

“What?”

“Take one,” he repeats. “The purpose of the work is to invite you to partake in both enjoying his presence and lamenting the lack of it. A sort of communion—choosing to take part of his body into your own. It was a powerful statement when so many were afraid to even be in our presence at the time.”

Nile looks at the pile again, and just like with Airbed II, her heart aches at what isn’t there, rather than what is. She selects a red piece and brings it out of the pile, cupping it in her hand and considering its weight.

“What happens when it runs out?”

Joe selects his own piece—a green one—and it rolls around in the palm of his hand. “It has. Many times. But that’s the beauty of it—it’s the curator’s responsibility to replenish the pile, metaphorically granting immortality and new life to the loss.”

The cellophane crinkles in Nile’s hand as she unwraps the piece. “How do they decide where to get the candy from?”

“The only firm rule is the original weight. Outside of that, there are no set instructions for the candies themselves.” He chuckles, threading his fingers behind his neck and leaning back against the wall. “Sometimes you can even see these strange combinations of greens, oranges, and purples.”

Nile considers the candy. “Not your favorite?”

“It has an almost Halloween quality to it. I tend to prefer the rainbow.”

The candy in her hand feels heavier than it did before—weighed down with the knowledge of what it represents, what it’s taking away.

She slips the candy into her mouth and her eyebrows raise in surprise. “It’s sweet?”

“It’s candy,” Joe says, unwrapping his own piece. “Did you expect something else?”

“I thought it’d be…” She pauses, trying to parse out her feelings. “Bitter. Or sad, somehow. Considering.”

“It could have been,” Joe agrees. “But the portrait isn’t meant to represent just grief and loss. Candy is a happy thing—a reward for yourself, or a lover’s gift on Valentine’s. And even when it’s gone, the sweetness remains. Still lingering on the tongue, or dwelling in the mind. It is the love of friends and partners that keeps the memory alive—and what keeps this the same portrait, even though its pieces have been cycled through many times.”

The candy melts away on her tongue, and she closes her eyes in grief for its loss, appreciation for what it was, and hope for the pieces that would come after it.

She swallows the last piece of it down.

Her stomach settles.

[chris-evans-indian-fanfic]

Worthy

One-Shot

Description: What happens when Steve goes to collect the Soul Stone instead of Natasha and Clint?

Warning: Curse words, spoilers for Avengers Endgame

This is for the awesome, caring and super-talented @jtargaryen18 's writing challenge. She eased my mind about the plot. Thank you 😘 Click here to know the rules and participate!

Main Masterlist

I don’t consent to have any of my work published or featured on any third party app, website or translated. If you are seeing this fanfiction anywhere but tumblr, it has been reposted without my permission. In that case, please do share the link and let me know.

...

Who was he? Steve Rogers? Or Captain America? Are they both different people? Or are they two sides of the same coin?

Steve wondered as he gazed down the cliff at Vormir, home to the Soul Stone.

When he had first arrived alone on the barren planet, he had been shocked and angry to see Red Skull guarding the infinity stone. To think that he went under the ice all those years ago stood for nothing. To have lost his life, his partner, his best friend and for what? Hydra was still active, the world was still suffering from war and now Red Skull was still alive, floating in space.

But as he understood Red Skull's predicament, Steve realised that while he himself was a man out of time, Red Skull was stuck here in his miserable existence till the end of time, out of place, out of touch. That brought him some satisfaction.

He was glad they had decided to send Natasha and Clint with Tony, Bruce and Scott to 2012. There was just too much ground to cover with 3 infinity stones in the same city. It made sense to have more eyes on the ground.

There was no way Steve would sacrifice anybody from his team for the stone. They had lost too many lives already. And if they were successful, then they would need all hands on deck to manage the chaos that would follow once everybody was brought back. 

Steve sat on a rock and pulled out his compass. He sighed as he saw Peggy, "What do you think Peg?" he murmured, lightly running his thumb over the photograph. 

After a few minutes, he clicked a button on the rim and the compass flipped open, revealing the hidden compartment beneath. He pulled out a folded piece of paper from within. It was as old and worn-out as Peggy's photograph. He closed the compass and looked at the other image. A black and white Bucky laughed back at him while at his side, a thin, scrawny Steve was looking scornfully at the camera, his face bruised. Steve chuckled as he remembered the day this photograph was taken. He had gotten into another one of his infamous back-alley fights. Some drunken idiot had punched Bucky because he had been flaunting his Sergeant's uniform at the bar amongst the ladies. While Bucky could have easily mopped the floor with the guy, Steve had decided to step in and push the drunken idiot. Then, as it always happened, Steve was dragged into the back-alley to be turned into a punching bag, with Bucky finally saving his skinny ass.

This photograph was taken later that night, with Bucky laughing at the whole incident.

The cold Vormir wind brought Steve back to the present. Ever since he could remember, he wanted to do the right thing, save the innocent people and just help those who needed it the most. 

While the asthmatic 90-pound Steve Rogers couldn't do that, the 240-pound Captain America was able to do that and much more.

That's why he loved being Captain America. He could finally do what he had always wanted to do. It didn't matter whether the Government labelled him as a criminal or whether the press questioned his every move. He was able to help people, change lives for the better and protect the little guy. Isn't that what mattered?

He opened the compass again. Looking at both the photographs, he whispered, "Thank you."

He picked up his shield and faced the cliff.

"What are you doing?" asked Red Skull, as if guessing his next move, "How do you know this will work? You are Captain America," he declared. 

Steve looked at him, his mouth turned into a smirk, "How would I know? I am just a kid from Brooklyn," and with that, Captain America jumped into the abyss below.

…

Steve's entire body was shivering with cold as he lay in the water. With his teeth clattering, he barely managed to sit upright. He started breathing rapidly as he took in his surroundings. He was still on Vormir. As he tried to get up, he realised two things. One, he was completely naked except for his time travel bracelet and vibranium shield, and two, he was holding something in his right hand. He opened his palm to look at the yellow Soul Stone. Almost laughing in relief, Steve looked down at himself. He saw he had the same scrawny body as the Steve in the old photograph. Shivering further with cold, he pressed a few buttons on his bracelet.

…

One by one as the Avengers returned to the compound, they looked around excitedly at their peers, relieved to find them safe. Steve was the last one to return. His knees buckled as soon as he landed. Hiding his naked bony body behind the shield, he threw up on the floor, his body not able to handle the stress of the quantum time-travel.

"Oh my God who is that?!" Scott exclaimed as Tony, Natasha and Clint stepped tentatively towards Steve. As his body convulsed with pain, he held up the stone towards them. The second Nat took the stone, Steve collapsed.

…

Steve woke up two days later on a hospital bed. 

"We are trying our best to keep your bodily functions from collapsing onto themselves. You should be thankful that we have medicines to treat most of your ailments. What were you thinking?" Tony spat with frustration.

Steve saw large swollen bags under Tony's red eyes. Steve was willing to bet that Tony hadn't slept ever since his return. He smiled, "It had to be done Tony," said Steve, his voice flat, having lost its 'Captain America depthness'.

"What happened on Vormir?" asked Natasha gently. Steve tried to sit, "The stone demanded a sacrifice. A soul for the soul stone. So I sacrificed him."

"Yeah and left us without a leader. What are we supposed to do now? You are meant to rally the troops. You are meant to lead. How do you think you will do that if you need an asthma inhaler every time you try to take a walk around the compound?" Tony voiced his concerns. "Tony, calm down. Shhh now," Thor said from his chair. 

"You look like you need a sandwich," Rocket commented, seated besides Thor.

"Your vitals look good Cap... ahem I-I mean Steve," Bruce flustered while checking Steve's reports.

"Captain America was never about one person. It is about what the title stands for; Bravery to face any challenge, Courage to stand up against the greatest powers for the right reason and Having a clear sense of duty, of what's right and wrong. Captain America can be anyone," Steve said, pointedly staring at Natasha. 

He turned to look at the shield placed by his bedside table. Carefully, he picked it up with a bit of struggle and held it out for her.

"I can't think of a better person to lead us," Steve said decidedly. Wide-eyed, Natasha looked at him with bewilderment. "No Steve. I am a spy. I am not a soldier. I cannot be trusted with…"

"You are not a spy. Not anymore. You have been leading the Avengers not just on earth, but across the galaxy, especially when most of us had given up. You are right though. You are not a soldier. You are a leader, Captain."

Natasha looked at Steve, her eyes brimming with tears, her voice almost breaking "I have too much red on my ledger Steve."

"You wiped that ledger when you joined the Avengers Nat. You deserve this," Clint supported her.

As Natasha took the shield and tried it on, Tony asked her, "We will have to render your suit. Do you want black with Red, White and Blue?" Natasha nodded. As Tony left, Natasha mouthed the words, "Thank you," towards Steve as he brushed it off.

"Have we brought everybody back yet?" Steve asked. 

"No. We are just finishing the gauntlet. It should be ready by tomorrow," Banner said.

Clint looked at Natasha proudly. "We have a female Captain America now."

"No," Steve said. He grinned at Natasha, "We have a Captain America now."

…

2014 Nebula kept her attention at Antman near the Quantum Time Machine. In the last two days there had been a lot of activity in the compound thanks to Steve's return. It would have served as a good distraction, but unfortunately, there were people working around the time machine. She was itching to bring her father and his army to this future. However, for that, she would need to have patience. A lot of patience. They were planning to undo the snap tomorrow, that's when she planned to strike. She cannot afford to fail her father. She must not.

…

"All the best guys," said Steve as he sat in the car, ready to leave the compound. There was going to be a tremendous blast of gamma radiation from the snap. Steve understood that he might not survive the blast and instead, had offered to bring falafels from the nearby restaurant for lunch.

He reached the modest Middle Eastern eatery. Only two tables were occupied when he placed his large order to go. The server looked at him in suspicion. He doubted whether Steve would be able to carry all the packages by himself. Still, he shrugged, large orders such as these were a boon in the post-snap world. 

After 5 minutes, the restaurant shook with a wave of energy blast. Steve fell down from his chair with the impact. As he got up, brushing himself off, he saw black dust materialising in front of him. He looked on as the dust came together to form a person, a man. Steve noticed this happening all around the restaurant. Within a span of a few minutes, the entire restaurant was filled to capacity, with more people appearing on the sidewalk. 

He heard terrified screams of people around him. Then guns were fired into the air. Steve turned, trying to determine the source of the violence, when he felt the ground shake.

"EARTHQUAKE!" someone screamed and they all tried to take cover, mostly bumping into one another. There was a loud deafening sound of a missile exploding, then another 4-5 such sounds in rapid succession as the ground shook relentlessly with the impact of the missiles. 

Shit, Steve thought. Who would be attacking them now?

A few moments later, when everything went quiet, Steve stepped out of the restaurant and looked in the direction of the Avengers Compound. He could see dark smoke rising into the sky, with a huge spaceship eclipsing the sun. Thanos.

Without a second thought, Steve entered the car. "F.R.I.D.A.Y," he commanded, "Take me to the compound right now." "There has been an attack Mr Rogers, I am not sure if…" the AI tried to reason with him, but Steve interrupted, "Now!" "Yes Mr Rogers," she said in resignation.

…

He reached as close to the compound as the car could take him. The debris of the buildings and the gaping holes in the ground preventing the car from going any further. Steve stepped down, and started making his way to the centre of the ground.

As he used his asthma inhaler, he realised Tony was right. If he couldn't even walk this much without needing his inhaler, how can he help them? 

When Steve reached the centre, his heart broke at the scene before him. Tony was lying on the ground having sustained multiple injuries. Natasha was trying to get up, her arms and legs badly cut. Thor was fighting with Thanos, but it seemed that was a losing battle as well. Steve couldn't just give up. He never had.

Looking around him at the ground, he saw a big piece of concrete. Lifting it, he tried to throw out with all his strength, but the concrete didn't even fall within 10 yards of Thanos. His eyes then went to Thor's Mjolnir on the ground. He still had to try right? 

He rushed towards the hammer and pulled on its handle, Mjolnir feeling surprisingly light in his hands. He aimed and swung for the ugly purple head. With Mjolnir hitting the mark, the hammer dutifully came back to Steve. 

"I KNEW IT!" exclaimed Thor, his reaction earning him a kick from Thanos.

Thanos's surprise was short-lived. He charged towards the little guy. Steve threw the hammer again but Thanos easily deflected it with his double-edged sword.

Before he could reach Steve, Natasha attacked Thanos, diverting his attention. "F.R.I.D.A.Y," she screamed, "get Steve a sandwich."

This isn't the time for a joke, Steve thought as he summoned the hammer and threw it at Thanos again.

Thanos threw Natasha to the ground and headed for Steve. A back-handed smack sent Steve flying in the air. He wouldn't have survived the fall, if it hadn't been for the S.A.N.D.W.H.I.C.H.H- an iron-man suit in the darkest shade of blue. The suit wrapped itself around Steve as it broke his fall. "Welcome Mr Rogers," greeted F.R.I.D.A.Y, "Do you like your new suit? It stands for

S - Steve

A - Always

N - Needs

D - Dangerous

W - Weapons

I - In-order-to

C - Cover

H - His

H - Homies"

Steve was still panting from the impact of the smack as he lay on the ground in the suit. "Not one of Tony's best acronyms," he managed to say between breaths. "Yeah," agreed the AI, "but he only put this together last night."

Steve struggled to get up again. He heard Thanos mumble something, but he couldn't care less. He stumbled in the new suit, barely being able to walk towards the giant alien, but still, willing to fight till his last breath. Just then, the microphone in his suit crackled a bit, "C-Cap, you ther--re?" He heard Sam's voice…

…

Steve couldn't believe it. The entire universe had come to fight with Thanos. He looked at humans and aliens alike, pissed off and ready to face the biggest threat to the universe. He managed to make it to the front of the line besides Thor, summoning the Mjolnir.

Natasha smiled at the army behind her, then turned to look at Thanos with a deadly stare.

She raised her shield as she called out to the warriors, her voice bellowing on the battlefield, "AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!" 

[sdottkrames]

I Was Aiming For the Sky (I know, I Know)

@comfortember prompt 10: Crying

Summary: Peter can’t save everyone. MJ picks up the pieces.

Inspired by this post. I literally cried when I saw this and was so inspired I decided to write a fic on it. So, thanks for the inspiration!

Trigger Warnings: Fire. A little girl loses her dad in said fire, so minor character death. Be safe, lovelies!

Read on AO3: here

Peter was a procrastinator. His aunt has been getting on him for months about being better at finding gifts, and he’d been trying to listen to her. Holidays had a way of sneaking up on him. He always debated on gifts, going back and forth, never feeling like anything was good enough. And then it was too late.

So, Peter had been paying attention. He’d been watching his aunt for months to get some ideas on what to get her for Christmas, and he noticed that she always sighed dreamily whenever she saw Pandora jewelry. He saved up enough to get his aunt something from the overly expensive store, and walked in on a mission. He’d even left his suit at home to keep it from tempting him to patrol. Getting his aunt a gift was the sole purpose of his visit that day.

He looked around at the various necklaces and bracelets, the bright lights under the counter giving him a headache.

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” A kind woman asked from behind the counter. She was around his age, and Peter was pretty sure every single piece of jewelry she was wearing was from the store. He wondered if the store loaned them to her or if she really made that much money to spend it all on jewelry. Or maybe they had killer employee discounts?

He shook off his train of thought and answered her. “Uh, yeah. I’m looking for a Christmas present for my aunt. She loves the jewelry but-” he stopped himself from saying we couldn’t ever afford it. “She never buys that kind of stuff for herself.”

The lady smiled kindly. “Well, is she a necklace kind of person? Or would you want to look at the bracelets?”

Upon seeing the bracelets and charms were sold separately, too expensive to buy both, he decided to look at the necklaces. A delicate silver chain with a sparkly daisy charm caught his eye. May loved daisies.

“This one! This is perfect,” he said.

The lady rang him up, and Peter headed out the door, the tingle of the bell announcing his departure.

He was feeling so good about the day's adventure, he decided to look for other Christmas presents. Mentally calculating each stop to determine the shortest course, he decided to go to the toy store first. Morgan would love the new LEGO Spider-Man set. 

The LEGO store near Rockefeller Center may have been out of his way, but Peter really liked that particular one. The dragon made of legos that spanned the whole store never ceased to amaze him, even if he was a teenager. He walked in, all wide eyed with wonder, and determined to bring Ned back here. It’d been awhile since they’d gone together. Peter refrained from his desire to buy the entire store (with the credit card Tony had given to him, he probably could), and found the perfect set for Morgan. 

He walked out of that store practically glowing. Something about getting all this done just made him feel great. And he’d gotten all his homework done in homeroom, so he was scotch free to enjoy his day. He decided to get one more present, this one for MJ. It required two stops.

The first one was the Lindt truffle store. There was one close by, one of the only ones that he knew of anywhere, and he nearly moaned when he walked in and was washed over with the sweet, delicious, take-your-worries-away scent of chocolate. He ate the free sample they gave him, then walked around the small, fairly crowded store until he found just the right truffles for MJ (and a few for himself, of course).

He should’ve known the amazing mood wouldn’t last long. After all, Parker luck was practically the story of Peter’s life.

He was walking down Broadway, eating a Hazelnut truffle and savoring every bite, when a scream caught his attention. He cursed his former self for stupidly leaving his suit at home.

It didn’t take long for him to find the source of the commotion. An apartment building was on fire, a young woman screaming for her husband and little girl who were evidently still inside. The firemen were busy getting other people out.

Without really stopping to think (the women reminded him of May and it clouded his thinking), Peter snuck behind the reporters and fire engines. It was distracting enough to let him hide his purchases in a bush and slip into the building’s open back door unnoticed. He wished he’d brought his suit to help with the smoke inhalation and the lack of ability to see, but his super hearing was there, at least. He could hear someone calling for help.

Peter knew it was stupid of him to barge in with no protection. He was superhuman, but still human. However, he didn’t care. He just wanted to help the woman and her family.

Coughing with every step, his lungs burning, he pressed on. The little girl and her dad were counting on him. He just had to get to them.

A board fell down somewhere close by, Peter’s sixth sense helping him flip out of the way just in time. He didn’t need to be a genius to know the building was close to collapsing. He had to get to the people and get out of there quick. 

Hearing the cries for help get louder, Peter moved a little quicker.

He wasn’t prepared for the sight that met his eyes when he could finally see the two.

The little girl was crying, calling for her father who had collapsed on the ground. Peter only heard one heartbeat. 

Forcing back the memories of Ben and Tony (Tony had survived, but him nearly dying had been enough) and tried to focus on the little girl.

“Hey, sweetheart. Let’s get out of here, huh?”

She recoiled at the sight of him. “I want my daddy and my mommy!” She yelled.

Peter spoke as gently as he could, though his heart was pounding and he couldn’t keep all the desperation and urgency out of his voice. “I know. Your mommy’s outside, and I’ll carry your daddy out, okay?” The little girl nodded, and a wave of relief washed over peter. “You’re gonna have to be very brave, okay. Think you can hold onto my shirt and follow me out?” The girl nodded again, and Peter picked up the body of her father as the girl twisted his shirt into a knot.

Peter had nightmares of having to carry Ben’s body back to May. Or Tony’s back to Pepper. They hadn’t been very heavy thanks to his super strength, but they had seemed to weigh a ton. Maybe that had just been the weight in his heart.

This felt like living that nightmare.

Sure, he didn’t know this man or the little girl, but Peter has failed. He’d failed Ben and he’d failed this man. He tried to keep his sobs quiet and kept talking to the little girl, Maya, she told him her name was, as they slowly made their way to the window. 

They were on the second story. It didn’t take much for Peter to break the glass, gulping air greedily and helping Maya get some too. The firefighters quickly jumped into action, using the ladder to reach them. 

Maya went first, Peter insisted, then her dad’s body. Peter waited for his turn, watching the fire carefully as it got closer and closer. He seriously thought about jumping. He wouldn’t get seriously hurt, but it would definitely expose his superhero identity.

Suddenly, a shock went down his spine, and then the world exploded. 

Peter was thrown backwards by the force of the blast. His shoulder seared with pain as he hit the side of the wall, which was quickly joined by the pain in his side as it scraped against the broken glass of the window. And then he was falling. He tried to use his webs to catch his fall, forget about secret identity, but there wasn’t anything there. He closed his eyes and braces to hit the concrete.

Instead, his stomach jolted as he landed on a well-placed trampoline and bounced once, then twice before coming to a stop.

Gulping in breaths, trying to reconcile the last 15 minutes that had seemed like 15 lifetimes, Peter sat there. He was numb, unable to move or think or do anything but answer quietly when emergency responders asked him his name and other basic questions as they bandaged his arm, side, face.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Once he’d been patched up and determined to have no concussion, he was left alone in favor of other more pressing matters, his only company the images of Maya’s dead Father, whose face morphed back and forth between his own and Ben’s and Tony’s.

Suddenly, a voice caught his attention and broke through the macabre thoughts.

“Peter!”

It was MJ. Her eyes were wide as she approached him. She slowly, carefully wrapped her arms around Peter, seeming to understand without words what he needed.

And that was all it took for the dam to break.

MJ didn’t shy away from his tears. She held him as he sobbed, broken words breaking through.

“Fire...little girl...couldn’t save...widow...Ben, Tony...failed.”

MJ just tightened her hold, patient and unmoving as stone, and moved her hand from its tight, grounding grip on his back to his curls to rub his soothing circles into his scalp. 

“I was trying...and I couldn’t-“

“I know, I know,” she soothed, her heart aching for him. “I came because I saw an alert on my phone about the fire, and I just knew that you would be brave and stupid enough to run in. Even though you told me you didn’t have your suit today.”

Peter gave a small, watery chuckle that tickled her shoulder. 

“You are not responsible to save everyone, Peter. It is not your fault. Don’t beat yourself up for this.”

Peter nodded, and MJ kissed his forehead.

“I’ll be back,” she whispered. She walked over to the fire fighters. “Listen, I'm going to take him to his doctor. He has some...specific medical needs that he needs to see a specialist for. Is he free to go?” They reluctantly agreed, and MJ thanked them before pulling out her phone and making a call. “Happy? Yeah, code red. Can you come get us?” 

She’d made Peter give her the driver’s phone number after her boyfriend had showed up covered in blood and freaked her out. He’d called Happy, and she’d gotten his number in case anything like that happened again. 

MJ held him all the way to the compound after they retrieved his stuff, all the way to the medbay and through getting checked up by Dr. Cho (with Tony hovering like a worried mother hen), and the entire time as they watched a movie, cuddled together in a pile of love and support with Tony and May. 

She knew the emotional scars took longer to heal than the physical ones, and there would be rough times as they dealt with those. But she was happy to hold him through it all; she wasn’t letting go any time soon.

[transientpetersen]

I struggle with the balance between self-orientation and other-orientation, between selfishness and selflessness. On the one hand, focusing on yourself is the only real way to see your beliefs and views made manifest in the world and the only reliable way to generate good things for yourself. The good intentions of others are haphazard at best and seldom produce results exactly in line with your hopes. On the other hand, focusing on others is safe. You get a nice veneer of virtue and you don't face the prospect of internal change when your efforts succeed or fail. The emotional stakes of growth are always carried by the other party. It is because of this emotional stasis and not despite it that I personally err toward other-orientation. 

This started to come into focus in multiple aspects of my life. At work it was "no one is coming to save you, no one is coming to guide you, what will you do?". At home, the numberless personal projects that never seemed to receive my time and attention. One can only ignore oneself for so long before it becomes absurd so bear with me as I explore some thoughts below the cut.

It is evident there are situations in life that demand selfishness, where failing to act in your own interests is a betrayal of your ethos. You are obligated to keep yourself in good functional order on the scale of years so you require a sustainable way to ensure your base needs are met. Temporary sacrifice ought to be approached with the same level of caution as sprinting in the course of a marathon. I'd be deeply wary about "temporary practices" in any context, they require at a minimum a compelling justification and an explicit end condition and even then they have a way of lasting well past reasonable expectation and well past the point of usefulness.

You are obligated to keep your word and uphold the responsibilities that you agree to take on, to be reliable for your dependents. The nature of these agreements is such that even little failures have big consequences, both for you and for others. If you know that you are in a mental or financial space where you will struggle to consistently meet your word then you would be better off refusing extra responsibility up front. And be very careful in speaking for your future situation on the span of years. Kids are an easy example of this, I've seen dramatic change in many first time parents because they must remain consistently reliable. Remember as well not to stock your life full with these commitments. Sure you may have a surplus of energy now but you still need slack to absorb the changes and emergencies that arise naturally through the process of living. Having others who can support you (“pick up the slack”) is certainly a traditional method but not always achievable and brings coordination challenges with it. Under-commit to others, it’s best for you and them.

You are obligated to invest in your emotional self. There are many ways to describe what I mean by this - passion, ambition, self-actualizing, dreams, purpose - they all point toward being the person that you hope to be. The pure mechanical act of survival will not bring satisfaction on its own. It is your passion that defines you as separate from generic humanity and this is what there is to love about you.

It is this last that is the focus for much other-orientation that can be removed from your life. There is satisfaction in helping along another’s happiness but by neglecting your own, you will set yourself up for bitterness and failure.

This is true in general and particularly true in persistent relationships and close relationships. Beyond the obvious drawbacks, it also poisons the ability to reciprocate and so generates an imbalance that is hard to correct. One needs to fix the bad habits of multiple people and work through outstanding debt while also attempting to build healthy habits with good communication. Like most DIY done poorly, it’s the recovering from the mistakes that costs the most and not the actual intended project.

I note that somewhere along the way, I picked up the idea that a good partner is a perfect support. This is not just wrong but actively harmful. You will hurt your partner and you will fail your partner and when that happens, the time that you spend in shock wondering how-this-unforeseen-tragedy-could-have-been-avoided is bleeding you valuable reaction time. Invest in fixing forward, not in avoiding issues. We are simply not optimized for caring for one another and attempting to do so will necessarily destroy the bits of yourself that are lovably you. It is entirely counterproductive to a loving relationship - a construct that requires all involved parties to maintain a level of self-orientation if it is to survive. 

There’s a general problem of assuming a linear reward function when the truth is more complicated. For example, maybe baking cookies together makes you and your partner happier than sharing dinner. It is unlikely that your lives will be improved by replacing dinners with the practice of baking cookies as the linear model would predict. Don’t just replace important pieces of yourselves because the replacements seem fun.

On optimizing, there’s also the false idea I’ve seen a lot when it comes to making plans based on a notion of priority - that low priority things can only be worked on once the high priority things are all done. That’s a terrible approach. Priority ranking is a way to make sure that you balance time between tasks responsibly and don’t spend more on lower urgency tasks than higher ones. It’s not about spending no time at all on them and falling into that trap is a good way to get wrecked on unforeseen issues. Most boring routine maintenance tasks are low priority but feel free to forgo them and see how quickly your life can fall apart (that’s if you’re lucky and the damage is immediate and not something like teeth falling out a decade later). So even if you feel that your stuff is lower priority than someone else’s plans, you still have to invest time in your stuff.

Finally, the corollary of “you cannot always help” must be “you cannot only help”. If you solely identify as a helper then you set the relationship up for failure. You are not providing originality in the relationship. Instead you are fostering a dependence that will cripple you if your partner in the relationship changes. This is blindingly evident in professional relationships though true for personal ones as well. To achieve your goal of a healthy relationship, you need to oppose, to create, to be different. You need to pursue some level of self-orientation and you need to allow the relationship to support that pursuit.

One digression before I wrap up here, the above is assuming more-or-less egalitarian relationships where the parties involved are seeking a balanced dynamic. There are other models. Some families organize such that obligation flows up by age and balance is generated by bringing new children in. Some hierarchies assume that the effort you give to your boss’s plans will be balanced by the effort your subordinates give to your’s. In both, one is constantly paying forward that other-orientation and assuming that someone else is present to pay toward you. This is too similar to multi-level marketing for me to endorse and subject to the same critiques of creative accounting and exploitation. Let’s also note the jealous nature of authority (many to one and never one to many) and how even workplaces with managers/leaders who bill themselves as servants don’t seem interested in supplying more than one contact to help you progress toward your goals.

To sum up: an excess of other-orientation is an exercise in self-abnegation and you should not let your desire to provide care negate you. You cannot always help. Don’t neglect your own goals and you’ll be the better for it.

[an-upset-librarian]

A Storm of Ice & Wind -- Part VI

As Nesta and Cassian travel North, they talk about the path that brought them together. 

At long last, I humbly bring before you all an update to this little Nessian story of mine. Nothing like a quarantine to get things started, huh? I hope you enjoy this little chapter! 

As always, if you want to be added/removed from the update tag list, let me know! I just copy/paste and I know it has been a while since I updated so...

AO3

I    II    III    IV    V

PART VI

             Thankfully, Nesta held back her surprised scream when Cassian quickly thrust up into the sky with his powerful wings. The drum beat of his wings drowned out the panicked pounding of her heart, but as soon as they cleared the canopy and reached open air, Nesta’s fear was replaced with childlike wonder.

            She’d never paid any attention when she flew before. Never really wanted to open her eyes and look at the world from the new perspective. How stupid she’d been.

            Her breath misted in the chilled air, the early rays of the sun catching it and casting a golden light upon her every exhale. She blinked against the glaring sun as it slowly peeked out from behind the wall of mountains spanning in nearly every direction. She looked down and the forest was only a dark blur beneath them. Washes of greens and browns and snow mixed together until she couldn’t distinguish one tree from another.

            The sky was a brilliant canvas around them. The dawn blushed into life around them, highlighting the clouds and emphasizing the creeping darkness of night as it faded away. Oranges and pinks streaked the sky and clouds. Nesta was in complete and utter awe. They were high enough that she felt as though she could reach out and touch the fluffy clouds around them. A gentle breeze washed through her plaited hair and pinched at her cheeks. She felt as though she was living inside one of Feyre’s paintings.

            The thought of her sister dampened her mood, but not as much as she would have expected. Flying above the canopy, enveloped in the painted sunrise filled her with tranquility, something she had not felt in quite a while.

            A smile lit her face and she nearly forgot who was carrying her when she tightened her grip around Cassian’s neck. The overwhelming sense of smugness exuding from her companion’s pores quickly reminded her of who she was with. He was watching her with mirth in his dark gaze, an all too self-satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

            The itching of her power under her skin faded to the back of her mind as she took in the great landscape beneath her and the skies around her. Nesta saw why Cassian loved to fly, why all Illyrians loved to fly. And what a punishment it was to clip female’s wings to keep them from experiencing such freedom.

            They were silent for the first half hour or so. Cassian focused on his flying and the trials they would face ahead, and Nesta relishing in the calmness flying brought her and the clarity she could almost reach. Before she knew it, she was relaxing in Cassian’s arms, the stress she’d felt about her magic and her overwhelming emotions fading with each wingbeat.

            While the air was frigid, it was a blessing against her hot, irritated skin. The brisk bite of the cold wind on her cheeks and her hands distracted her from the waves of power boiling inside of her. She knew she had to talk to Cassian about it, see if he could help, but her damned pride was still intact even after months of living as a shell of the person she used to be. Though, the person she used to be was stubborn and prideful as well.

            Maybe that person was still inside her, a foundation for the pieces she was trying to put together again.

            She lost track of time, lost in the beauty that surrounded her and the comfort of the arms around her and the body against her. It wasn’t until Cassian spoke, jolting her from her peaceful reverie, that she remembered their goals and what brought them to flying further North.

            “I needed this,” he said, his eyes filled with rare softness. Nesta nodded. She could see the stress leave his shoulders, like a weight was lifted, and the ease in his movements. His arms tightened around her as he breathed in the cold air. “After Hybern, when that bastard shredded my wings-” Nesta tensed in his arms, memories rising to the surface.

            “A part of me thought I’d never be able to do this again, to fly above Illyria with the winter winds against my wings and the sun on my skin.” His brow furrowed. Nesta wondered if it was the bubble that surrounded them, high above the ground with nothing but the clouds for company, that brought up such vulnerability. She felt it too, a tender and fragile part of her heart seemed to light up at his words.

            “I remember,” she started, “seeing you bandaged. I could see it, the determination to be fully healed but behind that I saw your fear too. And I felt it within me. I was in a body I couldn’t recognize with abilities I never thought possible, Elain was-well, she was Elain. Feyre was gone and so was my home.” That piece of her heart swelled with emotion and she felt the tether tying her to the male that held her grow taut. His thumb stroked her shoulder and he stared into her eyes with no hesitation or fear, only understanding. “I remember seeing you relearning how to fly. I wanted you to win that fight.” She met his gaze head on.

            “I wanted revenge, justice, whichever. I wanted one of us to come out of that cursed castle stronger and unchanged.” She clenched her jaw and exhaled a hard breath of air. “But that revenge came at a price. One I don’t know if I can pay.” The memories of the Cauldron and the King that wielded it came rushing back.

            The feeling of that cold water against her skin, the image of Cassian, broken and unconscious, crawling towards her as she fought and screamed. And what came after-when she was inside that ancient thing. The darkness that surrounded her and what she saw inside of it, what she stole. That darkness lived in her now.

            “Some burdens stay with us, like scars that don’t heal right, or broken bones that don’t set. There are wounds of the mind that can’t be healed, only patched over. I know, I have a couple. Knowing that I wasn’t strong enough, despite what these damned Siphons grant me, that I wasn’t enough to save your or your sister, it is the greatest wound I shall ever bear. Deeper than all the shit I did during the war so many centuries ago, or even the war we just survived.” Cassian’s voice was thick with emotion. His arms tightened to the point of pain, but she didn’t say anything, couldn’t say anything. She could only listen, as he did for her.

            “I saw what happened to you, what you went through and I stayed away because I thought it would be best, Nesta.” Her name was honey on his lips, and she leaned in like a honeybee drawn to a flower’s nectar. His face was mere inches from hers and she could feel the heat of his breath fan across her face. She could see the golden flecks in his eyes shining in the sunlight.

            “I wish things could have been different for you, but they weren’t. You were dealt a shit hand and you’re trying your best; I can see that now. I know it isn’t easy. I know.” For once, Nesta actually believed he did know, that he did understand. That he could understand, somehow, the pain she felt. Their scars were different, but if she could recognize those marks on his soul then he could see hers. Another piece of herself fell into place as she stared into his eyes, as she felt his pain and saw his empathy. She took a shaky breath and cupped her hands around his face. They were hovering, almost, in the sky together. Locked in their bubble together.

            “I see you too, Cassian.” She pressed her forehead against his and felt him shudder. A sense of ease and comfort overcame her. It was so easy to be close to him, to be vulnerable with him. In the bubble, she didn’t care about her pride or her wounds that refused to heal. Cassian murmured her name, as if saying a prayer and for once she wanted to answer that call of devotion, without thinking about what it could mean.

            “I-” she stuttered, too afraid to finish.

            “I know,” he answered.

            She thought about the first time they met, when she was still human, and the war seemed like something impossible happening in an impossible place. How she judged those that accompanied her sister. So much has changed, but now it felt right. The thread that connected her to Cassian was singing. It wrapped around her chest and brought warmth and something she never thought she could feel. Its melody was familiar and welcoming, and she was being drawn into its dance. Nesta felt Cassian’s breath against her lips. She thumbed the slight stubble on his jaw and took a deep breath.

            She felt his lips brush against hers and was instantly reminded of the last time she felt his lips on hers, when they faced certain death together as that King walked towards them. Nesta jerked back.

            She heard it again, the snap of her father’s bones. She saw it, his crumpled form. Saw Cassian’s broken wings and body against the earth, looking at her with such grief and loss. All at once, those feelings that dwelled inside her that had been calm since they took off into the skies returned. Her heartbeat sped up and the power inside of her stretched and bared its teeth.

            Nesta pushed against Cassian as the panic set into her bones, nestling besides her pieced together heart. She could hear his voice, a few curses and some attempt at calming words but she couldn’t hear his words. Couldn’t focus. All she could hear was that Cauldron damned snap. All she could feel was the memory of his lips against hers, the salty taste of his tears and the desperation they both shared.

            She couldn’t be here, in his arms and thinking of kissing him. Not when her father was dead, her life forever changed and destroyed, her family lost to her. She couldn’t think, couldn’t focus. There was only the panicked sense of danger that filled every fiber of her being.

            That ancient power inside her relished in her roiling emotions. It took advantage of the brief loss of control she had and lashed out. Her skin was crawling and cold. Nesta’s muscles trembled and despite knowing she was hundreds of feet in the air, the power inside of her wrought havoc. It filled her blood and danced across her skin. She wanted to cling to Cassian, to pull him close and have him tell her everything would be okay, but that power was all consuming. Before she even knew what was happening, her body was finally free of his warm but confining arms.

            And Nesta fell.

------------------------------

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[obsessedwithbbandsuju]

Faker | Prologue

Kpop Mafia!AU – YG and SM have been rivals for a good many years, but Yang Hyunsuk and Lee Sooman have both agreed to take the option that seems entirely implausible to everyone working under them: an alliance. And it will have to be sealed with something meaningful.

Warnings: Violence, smut

Pairing: Park Jungsoo/Son Taeyeon

“So these are all the children you’ve managed to find this month?” Hyunsuk asked, all the while not even bothering to look at the man at whom the question was directed. Instead, his sharp gaze swept over the children. The building wasn’t terribly fancy, nor was it something that would be considered fit for children, but after feeding, clothing, and letting them bathe, the children that they had brought in didn’t seen too unhappy. Still, the smarter, more experienced ones – the majority of the children, as most of the others had likely died already – continued to glance around warily. The ones that wouldn’t have survived if they’d been left out there much longer were already starting to loosen up, looking around with expressions of curiosity.

“For the most part, sir. There’s one more,” the man explained, and it was only then that Hyunsuk bothered to fix his eyes on him.

“Where?”

“She’s upstairs, sir. Room farthest down the hall.”

“Didn’t come down with the others?” These types of children tended to do what other children around them did. Safety in numbers, and it was difficult for them to trust adults.

“No, sir. She stayed completely still while the other children were being brought downstairs. One of our staff asked her if she wanted to come down. She said no.”

Without another word, Hyunsuk left the children to climb the stairs to the second floor. As he had expected, they would all be fairly useful in being trained as low or middle-ranking members of YG. The vast majority of the children brought in were.

He reached the second floor and walked down the long corridor to the room at the end. The door was slightly ajar, and through the crack he could see the back view of a young girl. She was sitting on a stool near the back of the room, swinging her legs.

Hyunsuk almost walked away. Swinging her legs – there was no way she could even have any type of common sense if she was relaxed enough to be swinging her legs in a situation like this. But, reminding himself that there was more to this girl than met the eye – there was more to every human than met the eye, after all – he opened the door further.

The girl looked up at him as he approached. She had straight black hair that reached her shoulders and pale skin. As her eyes, large and pale hazel with a hint of grey, settled on him, Hyunsuk almost paused in his tracks. Almost.

Even for a child who had grown up on the streets, her stare was different. It was observant – calculating. Sizing him up, gauging his intentions, estimating the danger that he posed.

It was a very excellent foundation for a member of YG, one that usually didn’t come around until about age thirteen or fourteen.

“Hi.” Hyunsuk kept his voice friendly.

“Hi.” Now that he was closer, he could see that the girl was working on a puzzle. The box lying next to it revealed that it was a thousand pieces in total, all of which were complete solid black. The puzzle itself was a little over two-thirds complete. Hyunsuk was surprised.

“Did you do this?” he asked. The girl nodded.

Hyunsuk examined her carefully for a few more seconds, his conviction growing stronger by the minute.

“What’s your name?”

She gave him another brief evaluation, clearly deciding if she should tell him or not. If he intended to hurt her in any way. He didn’t.

“I don’t have one.” The reply was matter-of-fact. Hyunsuk couldn’t tell if she was being honest or not, but he could tell if the fact mattered to her. And it didn’t. She wasn’t trying to fool him out of any attachment to a name she might have, if she did have a name. She might really not have one, or she might have one, but if she did it was one that she didn’t care about.

“How old are you?”

“Seven.”

Seven years old and this. Hyunsuk had no more doubts. He nodded, pulling out the seat next to her and settling in it. The girl turned back to her puzzle, and it took her only a few seconds to determine the location of another piece. She slid it in, and it clacked into place.

“I’m going to adopt you,” he said, deciding that it was best to tell her as soon as possible. He wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d been expecting, but this wasn’t it. The girl gave no reaction whatsoever. She didn’t even look at him; her gaze stayed firmly fixated on the puzzle pieces. Gingerly, she picked up another one and set it into its spot.

“Don’t you care?”

“I do, a little bit.” It was almost alien that she was so sincerely telling the truth. “But I’m not really surprised. I can’t imagine what else you would want with kids.”

Interesting. Her assessment had some flaws, but for her age, her unruffled demeanor alone was remarkable. Hyunsuk decided to test her further. “I could want to carve open their bodies and use them in the organ trafficking market,” he said. The girl looked away from the puzzle, only two pieces left until it was finished, and focused on him.

“Unless you were especially an asshat, I don’t see why you would feed them, give them clothes, and wash them.”

“You’re right,” Hyunsuk conceded. “Unless I was a particularly gleeful sadist, I probably wouldn’t.”

“What’s a sa-dist?” A gleam of interest appeared in her hazel eyes. It was the most passionate reaction that he’d seen out of her so far.

“Someone who really enjoys hurting others.” Hyunsuk leaned back in his chair, watching her carefully. She seemed intensely pleased to have learned the word, mouthing it to herself a few times over.

“You know,” he said, “I could have been a pedophile. Washing and feeding and clothing these children because I want to doll them up for myself.”

As opposed to her curious reaction to the word ‘sadist’, it was clear that the girl understood exactly what a pedophile was. Her eyes narrowed, her lips pressed together in a grim line, and her brows dipped in an expression of revulsion. “That’s disgusting.”

“It is,” Hyunsuk agreed. “But don’t worry; you’re right, I’m not gathering children for that. You were correct, actually. Even though you didn’t think of the possibility that I might be fattening the kids up for myself, did you?”

“How do I know you’re not lying now?” Her tone was guarded; suspicious. It looked like the thought of pedophiles had stirred some warning in her. Hyunsuk wondered if, at her level of repulsed disdain, she’d had firsthand experience with them. The thought, while not impossible or even unlikely – she was a child growing up on the streets, after all – was unsettling. He had been in the underground and the illegal scope long enough to know that there were plenty of pedophiles about in the world, but he wanted nothing to do with them, nor would he want her or any child to have anything to do with them, either.

“Do you think I’m lying?” Hyunsuk asked sincerely, meeting her eyes. She stared at him for a long while, brows furrowed together in concentration. It must have been at least one minute until she leaned back slightly, her observations done.

“No.” She still looked uneasy, but her answer was confident. “You’re not.”

She was healthily wary but still seemed to believe in her instincts, which was a good sign. Hyunsuk was certain now in his decision of adopting her. He’d be damned if he let this untapped well of potential go.

“My name’s Hyunsuk. Yang Hyunsuk.”

She didn’t say anything, but she looked thoughtful. Finally, her mouth opened. “Hi.”

It seemed pointless, but it was endearing in some vague way. He returned the greeting.

“If you’re going to adopt me, are you going to name me?” the girl asked. She had returned to swinging her legs. “You can’t refer to me as ‘you’ forever.”

“You’re right.” It didn’t surprise Hyunsuk that she’d taken that initiative. “Let’s give you a name first. Is there something you’d prefer?”

“Not really. Do what you want. Just don’t make it something weird.”

Amused at her childish stipulation, Hyunsuk sat back, thoughtful. He wasn’t going for something deep or meaningful; he just wanted to give her a name that was fitting for her.

“Taeyeon? How is that?”

“That’s pretty.” There was a note of satisfaction in the girl’s voice. Her eyes seemed to brighten, despite her honest claim that she didn’t really care about not having a name – it seemed that now that she had experienced having one, she liked it. “I like it.”

“Then that’s what we’ll call you.” Hyunsuk stood. “I’ll go speak to Jaehyuk about adopting you. It won’t take long.”

“Okay.” Taeyeon turned back to her puzzle, her focus shifting entirely from him to entirely on it. She seemed to have a good attention span on top of everything he had noticed about her; an untapped well of potential indeed. He didn’t know what luck brought him to Taeyeon out of all the children in the world, or if it was just pure dumb luck, but in any case he intended to do as much as he could with her.

After a ten-minute talk with Jaehyuk, for all intents and cares, Hyunsuk had adopted Taeyeon. He took her hand and led her from the building.

“You’ve adopted me,” Taeyeon spoke from her perch in the backseat, the seatbelt pulled snugly across her waist and chest, “but I don’t think I’m your daughter.”

“Why is that?”

“I don’t know. It’s just not the impression I’m getting.”

Hyunsuk looked back at her and smiled. “Your instincts are correct, Taeyeon.” He had suspected she was sharp, and she just kept proving it to him. “I have adopted you, but you’re not my daughter. You can still call me ‘Father’, though, if you want.”

“Okay then.” The smile she sent his way was surprisingly innocent. “Father.”

~

The kid was waking up, his lanky limbs moving feebly and his head groggily turning to the side. Sooman watched intently as his subject of interest struggled to open his eyes. The boy couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old, with a youthful face and a thin, gangly body. Despite all that, the dark brown eyes that fixed on Sooman in alarm held an unusual amount of pessimism. Not the childish pessimism of a budding adolescent thinking the world was unfair for not going exactly his way, but the grown, jaded pessimism of an adult who had experienced too much hardship in too little time and knew exactly how cruel and without mercy the world was. The impression was only heightened by the ugly purple bruise decorating his neck, splayed across the pale, wet skin, dark and painful. There were thin, elongated blotches in the structure of the bruise that resembled finger marks. Sooman’s eyes narrowed, just the slightest bit.

The boy scrambled into a sitting position, the mud and grime of the garbage dumpster he was leaning against staining his face, hands, and clothes. Sooman didn’t move; any sort of movement could startle the kid, make him bolt. And while it wouldn’t be too difficult to catch him, it was also inconvenient.

“Who are you?” The kid was trying to sound tough, but it was obvious how spooked he was. His voice – on the higher, lighter pitch of the spectrum, but then again he didn’t seem to have gone through puberty yet – trembled, and he pulled his knees up to his chest in an instinctual defensive mechanism. Now that he was awake he seemed even younger; Sooman revised his opinion. No older than thirteen.

“My name’s Sooman. What’s yours?” He kept his tone open, casual, but not too friendly. If the kid felt that he was trying to butter him up, it would be harder to approach him.

A searching stare. Hesitation. Resolution of the dilemma. “J-Jungsoo.”

“And why are you sleeping out here, Jungsoo? It’s wet and cold, and I’m sure you’d prefer a variety of other places before this one.” He didn’t expect Jungsoo to answer him honestly, whatever the boy’s honesty consisted of. If he did, he would be an idiot.

Jungsoo didn’t disappoint him. “I… I come here often. I just fell asleep this time.” While the lack of honesty was all-too-plain, Sooman still approved. The child had hit good points – made sure not to give an answer that would imply he was vulnerable or not used to this place, because anyone with harmful intentions would exploit uncertainty. It was clear that Jungsoo had had that in mind in his answer, even though his delivery was less than stellar.

“So you’re homeless? No one with a home would come here often.” There was nothing to come here for. It was just a dumpster in a dark alleyway. Maybe there were some very peculiar people who liked the grime and the stench, but Jungsoo didn’t strike him as someone like that. Besides, he already knew that the kid was lying.

Jungsoo hesitated, something like conflict in his eyes. “I’m not.” That was his answer, but it seemed to lack the resolve of an honest, sincere one. Sooman arched an eyebrow, curious.

“And yet you’re here. And come here often, apparently.”

Jungsoo nodded feebly. It was clear that the boy knew he was walking right into a verbal trap, and he could say nothing that was plausible and convincing without contradicting what he’d said earlier. Still, Sooman had to admit that there was a lot of potential here. He had run into plenty of troubled adolescents during his time in the underworld, but not many were as sharp in gauging the safety of the situation as this Jungsoo was. He’d make a good asset.

“Are you sure you don’t have anything unpleasant going on at home?”

Jungsoo gasped – well, it was more like he sucked in a breath between his teeth too fast for his lungs to handle. “No. No. Nothing like that.”

The lie was obvious. Not only because the boy’s voice was rushed and slightly panicked, but because of that bruise that splotched over his otherwise pale neck, protrusions that resembled finger marks once again catching Sooman’s eye. It looked exactly like a grown man had grabbed Jungsoo by the neck in some kind of anger.

And Sooman had been watching the boy for some time now. Well, not directly, but ever since that day a few months ago that he’d accidentally come across Jungsoo kneeling in an alleyway and sobbing, his arms wrapped around himself as he rocked back and forth without even paying attention to all the trash and muck surrounding him, he’d ordered a man to gather what information he could about him and bring it back. Nothing too invasive, like breaking into his home; just when he left his house, which was a tiny, rather run-down apartment complex towards the outskirts of the area.

And according to what information he’d gotten, Jungsoo was nowhere near as carefree as a kid his age should be. Apparently, it was rather often that he came running out of the apartment as if he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. Apparently, it was rather often that he skulked in alleyways and streets for hours at an end. Apparently, it was rather often that when he dashed down the street away from his home, a man would lumber out of the apartment and shout threats and abuse in his direction, waving his fists angrily.

It was obvious the kinds of conditions he lived in. And while Sooman didn’t consider himself anyone’s benefactor or SM a charity, he had good reason for wanting Jungsoo to join the ranks. And Jungsoo had pretty good reason for agreeing to.

“Your father?” Sooman asked calmly. He made sure to keep any emotion at all from his tone, to avoid setting off any reaction from the kid.

It seemed to work at least a little. Jungsoo’s body curled, his legs pulling inward towards his chest and his arms wrapping themselves around his shoulders, but otherwise, there was no particular flaring up. “W-what did you say? Have you – have you been watching me?”

“I have,” Sooman admitted. No use denying it. “Your father is disgusting; that’s undeniable. No one should have to live like that.” It wasn’t like his words were entirely untrue, because he did feel genuinely sympathetic for anyone who was faced with abusive parents, but they weren’t words he’d be saying to just anybody. He was saying them to Jungsoo, sympathizing with him, because he wanted to kid to join SM, and playing on his unfortunate situation was probably the best way to convince him to do so.

Jungsoo’s eyes wavered.

“If you want,” continued Sooman, seeing plainly that what he was saying was having the intended effect, “then I can help you.”

The kid wiped at his eyes frantically, as if he could tell he was about to tear up and cry but didn’t want to in front of anyone. It didn’t seem like the immature ego of a teenager wanting to appear touch, but the desperation of an adult who knew any sign of weakness could be preyed on by strangers. “Why should I trust you?” he asked quietly.

“It’s an opportunity.” Jungsoo stared at him in confusion, so Sooman elaborated.

“It’s an opportunity to escape from your father. Do you think you’ll find a better chance than this? Someone offering to help you? If you can’t take this opportunity, do you think you’ll ever find it in yourself to get away from him?”

“But for all I know you’re not even giving me that opportunity,” Jungsoo challenged. He sounded a bit shaky, like he wasn’t used to tiptoeing his way around logic games – which made sense, considering his physically violent father. “You could be planning to just sell me. Or to––” He shuddered, and Sooman didn’t need words to know what possibility the boy was thinking of. It irritated him to even be looked at with the possibility of being trash like that, but it was only expected for a kid in Jungsoo’s situation.

“Do you think that’s what I’m planning to do?” he asked, meeting Jungsoo’s eyes. The adolescent flinched, but held his gaze.

“I – I… don’t know.” Well. If Jungsoo was openly admitting to not knowing something, admitting to an uncertainty, an insecurity, to him, then it was a sign that he was opening up. It was faster than Sooman had expected it to take, but then again, when your father hit you and beat you, maybe you were quick to cling on to other people, even unconsciously.

“Of course you don’t. You’d never know for sure.” Sooman made sure to keep his voice quiet and soothing. “But what do you think?”

Jungsoo hesitated, his gaze flicking over him warily. It must have been a good fifteen seconds before the boy spoke again. “I don’t think that’s what you’re planning to do.”

“If that’s what you think, then trust your instincts,” Sooman advised – sincerely, because that was almost all that he’d been doing for the past decade and a half. Trusting his instincts not to fail him. He wasn’t dead yet, so he must have been doing something right. He knew it was a gigantic leap for Jungsoo to even begin to consciously put any trust in him, but if he wasn’t willing to take risks like this then he would never be able to advance – and that meant he was pretty much worthless.

Jungsoo hesitated again. His eyes wavered as he stared at Sooman, as if he was trying to look into his mind and puzzle out if he was truly being honest, or if he had harmful intentions. He breathed in shakily. His lower lip trembled. His hand reached up to rub subconsciously at the angry purple bruise on his neck – the one that his father had left.

“…How will you help me?”

Pleased, Sooman leaned back a little, the tension of Jungsoo’s imminent decision dissipating. “For starters,” he said, “I’m going to get you away from your father.”

Jungsoo was silent as a statue and even stiller. There was a mix of hope, eagerness, terror, sadness, and resentment in his dark eyes that was, admittedly, heartbreaking. No teenager should have to feel like this about leaving his only remaining family.

“How?” he finally asked. “Who are you, anyway?”

“My name’s Lee Sooman,” Sooman introduced himself. “And for starters, you need to come with me. Don’t worry about your father anymore; I’ll take you to a place where he can never get you.” He offered Jungsoo his hand to help him get to his feet, and, just as he’d expected, the teenager didn’t immediately take it. Instead, he stared at the outstretched limb, uncertainty once again coloring his gaze. Sooman didn’t blame him, but he also didn’t have all the time in the world.

“Trust your instincts, Jungsoo.”

Jungsoo took a deep breath. His lower lip trembled again, and Sooman thought the boy might burst into tears – but Jungsoo’s eyes hardened. He reached up and took the hand.

[motherofwoofers]

I’d Rather Be Hibernating Ch. 8

By the time Luka came to in his bed, the sounds of the city around him were already filtering in through the window. It was likely it had been at least two days, but he couldn't be sure. His face was half buried in his pillow, and he could tell only one boot had been pulled off. There was also an uncomfortable pressure below his navel… the jeans. Luka let out a groan, then rolled over.

The bright sun light streaming in from his window made him hiss, before he yanked the covers back up. Why was he awake again?

After a prolonged moment, where he may or may not have passed out again, he ran a hand over his face, before letting it drift down to his chest. Something tangled and tugged at his fingers, he toyed with it for a moment, then pulled the blanket back with his free hand. The light was blinding once more as he brought his hand up to inspect. A long dark strand of hair had gotten caught.

A smile broke across his face.

The other night flashing across his mind. The tangled limbs. Her warm body. *Taking his pants off.* Luka groaned again in embarrassment.

But then the reason for them being in that shared bed crossed his mind. And the smile faded.

The screams. The cracking of bones.

He let out a pained gasp.

Luka had seen a lot as a hero. More than he had ever wanted to see in his life. In a hundred lives. This last battle had shaken him, though. Shaken him down to his very core.

He gripped his shirt over his heart tightly. His heart beat solidly under his palm, even if it felt like it should be broken by now. The hair still twined within his fingers calmed him. If only a little. She was still alive. Still alive because *he* had been enough. He had figured out how to stop the latest Akuma.

Luka wondered how many close calls in the future they would face. A thought he quickly pushed away, before he rolled to his side. He let his feet settle on the ground, the left foot still laced and booted. He tugged at the laces as he began scanning the room for his phone.

Once he had managed to kick it off, he leaned down and snatched his jacket off the ground. The cold phone was tucked into his pocket, though it was usually hidden away in his hoodie. He went to swipe at the screen but nothing happened. Luka held down the power button, only to be greeted with a dead battery sign.

"Phenomenal." A quiet shuffling happened under his bed, before the end of his charging cord poked out. "Thank you, Sass."

"Of coursssse," and then shuffling once more as Sass found a warm spot near the power strip hidden under the bed, to settle again. Luka plugged the cord in and waited for it to reboot. Scrubbing at his face, he opened the top drawer of his night stand and pulled out a small pouch. He cleared some room from the top of the stand then unzipped the bag and pulled out its contents.

It had taken quite some time to find something to help manage the stress. The crippling anxiety and depression at times. Therapy was too difficult with his alter ego. And his mother had raised him wary of pharmaceutical drugs. Even if Juleka managed well with them, but she also wasn't a permanent Miraculous wielder. So when Anarka had sailed for the Netherlands soon after the fall of Hawkmoth, he had gone with to enjoy the short trip. To enjoy the potential normal future ahead of him. A celebration of freedom from terrorism.

It was also when she had taken him around to a few of her favorite coffeeshops. And from there on he had found a coping method. One only a few knew of, just in case. But it helped take the edge off.

Pulling a small piece of greenery from the bottle, he pushed it into the bowl of his small pipe, before lighting it, and inhaling. Covering the still smoking contents with the butt end of his lighter, while he held the smoke in, and leaned over to check his phone. He let it out as he swiped the screen open and saw the alarming amount of notifications. He opened the message from his boss at the local music shoppe where he taught aspiring musicians. It was a nice in between job, while Jagged was taking an extended break between performances. He was pushing for Luka to be his opener on the next tour. But he hadn't agreed to it yet.

Luka took another hit, finishing off the small amount he had packed, and set the glass pipe and lighter down. Then read the message.

LUIS: WE'RE CLOSED TIL MONDAY. DON'T WORRY ABOUT COMING IN.

Double checking the current date, he sent out a thumbs up to his boss, before letting out the last of the smoke. He'd been passed out for two days and thankfully it was only Saturday morning. A few more notifications from social media, and an unending amount of texts from Juleka and Rose. He sent the latter a reassuring message that he would stop by their place soon. A smiling emoji immediately popped up on the screen.

He ran his tongue over his teeth, grossed out with multiple days worth of film and now cotton mouth. But he was too worn out to get up and deal with it yet. The Akuma Alert app was graciously quiet, and he took the opportunity to scroll through his other less urgent messages. Including the source of the dark hair he continued to twine through his fingers.

Marinette hadn't messaged him since the day of the attack, and he grinned. She was likely in a deep sleep curled up in her bed, buried beneath an excessive amount of blankets. He sent over a *good morning* text.

Then he stretched and stood, peeling a sweat soaked shirt from his body. He answered the deep growl in his stomach with a hardened left over piece of pizza from the fridge, before nearly tripping over himself as the notification strum of his phone went off. Her name popped up on his screen and he could feel his heart jump into his throat.

M: MORNING 💓

Luka inhaled the rest of the pizza as he typed out an immediate response.

L: THAWED OUT ALREADY?

M: NOT IN THE SLIGHTEST M: MAMAN MADE ME GET UP TO EAT

L: THE WORST L: SHE SHOULD JUST LET YOU WASTE AWAY

M: 😝

He grinned as he pulled the phone to himself and collapsed against the head of his bed.

L: TELL YOUR MAMAN THAT IM WASTING AWAY

M: NOOOOO M: SHE WILL BRING THE WHOLE BAKERY! M: BESIDES…

He waited as the ellipses kept appearing then disappearing on the screen. But the next message never came.

L: BESIDES?

M: YOU COULD JUST COME TO THE BAKERY INSTEAD

A large smile crossed his face, and he was about to respond when her face popped up on his screen requesting to video call. In a bit of a panic he swept up the contents of his nightstand into the bag quickly, then tousled his hair a bit before answering.

"Hey," a soft sleepy voice greeted him. Marinette's hair was already thrown up in a messy bun for the day and she was propped up in bed swaddled in a fuzzy pink and white blanket.

"Hey there sleepy head," he grinned.

"Look who's talking!"

"I messaged you first," he leaned back against his bed frame again, stretching an arm out behind his head. A deep red blush crossed her face and whatever she had been about to say was derailed into a stuttering mess. After a quick thought, he realized he was still shirtless, and the span of his torso was in the shot. A smirk crossed his lips as he watched her squirm.

"Where's your shirt?" She eventually managed to squeak out.

"On the floor. It seems I keep losing my clothes around you." He let his voice drop a hair into a deeper tone, thoroughly enjoying the returning flush to her face. "First my pants. Then my jacket. And now my shirt. I don't have much left."

"You made me keep your jacket!"

"But you asked me to take my jeans off."

"That's because you were uncomfortable!"

"I could've slept just fine with them on," he grinned at her. The same devil may care grin he saved almost exclusively for her.

"Lies!" She shrieked on the other end. He ended up dissolving into laughter as she sat back and folded her arms. The worn out black of his hoodie sleeves fully enveloped her, hiding her hands from sight, as she propped the phone against her knees he assumed. The sight of her still in his jacket made his heart do a small flip.

Luka propped his own phone up against the portable speaker on his night stand and pulled up his Mustang, before settling into a new position. Leg crossed with the body gently propped against him. He quietly picked at the strings and adjusted the tuning as she fiddled with her hair on the other end.

"What are your plans for the day?" Marinette pulled the sticks from her hair and let it cascade down in a tumbled mess. It took Luka a moment to respond. He hid his reaction well, he thought, by returning to his gaze to his guitar. Picking out a gentle tune on the electric, even though it wasn't the same as his acoustic.

"I need to see Jules before she murders me," he grinned, giving her his attention once more. A small giggle greeted him.

"She didn't sound happy the other night."

"No. No, she was not." He laughed, transfixed as she smiled at him. Blue eyes shining even in the dimness of her room and sleepiness still visible in her every move. "She seemed more interested in your virtue though, than my own health."

"Oh, that's right. You slept on the couch as I recall."

"Fully clothed too." A bright laugh escaped her as she covered her mouth with his jacket. "I wonder if she'll believe me when I show up without my hoodie when I go over later."

"If you survive long enough for her to ask."

"That's true," he chuckled and looked back to his guitar. "If she asks I'll just say it looked better on you anyways." He watched a sweet smile cross her lips, but she quickly looked away as someone called her name off screen.

"Oh that's Maman now, she's brought me more soup," she made a face of exasperation, but quickly changed it.

"I'd gladly eat that for you," he teased.

"Shhh! Don't say that!"

"Marinette, who is that? Luka? Does he not have food? Tell him to come over, sweetheart! I'm making dumplings for dinner," Sabine's motherly voice came out slightly hushed from his phone.

"Mama! Luka is going over to Juleka's," she exclaimed, before accepting a tray with a roll and a deep bowl.

"Oh. Well there should be plenty of leftovers if he changes his mind, dear. Tell him I said hello. Do you need anything else?"

"No, thank you, Mama. I'll let him know."

Luka waited until Marinette turned back to him, her spoon dipping into the bowl.

"I might need to come try the famous Dupain-Cheng dumplings," he grinned.

"Only if you put a shirt on first."

"Why? Do you think your Maman would be upset if I didn't?"

"No," she drank a spoonful of broth before continuing. "She would probably fuss and find you something to wear. But, I'd be upset."

"Oh?"

"I don't feel like sharing," a coy smile crossed her face, and she lifted an eyebrow as she spooned another drink into her mouth. He couldn't help but bite his lip.

"I'll be sure to wear a shirt then," he grinned before adding, "then you can ask me to take it off again." The resulting tomato red blush on her face made it all worth it.

A guitar strum and then a message bubble popped up on his screen.

JULES: WHERE ARE YOU?!

Strum.

JULES: ROSE SAID YOU WERE ON YOUR WAY 30 MINUTES AGO

"Jules is growing impatient." He sighed, setting the guitar on his bed.

"Good luck. Make sure she doesn't murder you too much. I might need some warming up later."

"Send me all your luck, then. I'd hate for you to freeze," he, unplugged his phone and carried it around as he pulled out a clean shirt from his dresser.

"I may need to find another source of heat." Another coy smile.

"Now how am I supposed to get anything done, with you suggesting something like that." He took the opportunity to tug his shirt on, and missed the message that accompanied another strum. But the frown on her face was enough to know that she had gotten an alert as well.

"Where is it?" He asked quietly.

"Near Pont Royal," she ground out. "Rena Rouge is on the scene already."

"Guess, Jules will have to wait."

[eggoreviews]

My Top 25 Games Advent Day 1 - The Last of Us (#25)

“Everyone I have cared for has either died or left me. Everyone… fucking except for you!”

Welcome, one and all, to the ultimate game you really can only play once. To be honest, there isn’t a hell of a lot I can say about this game that hasn’t already been said. It immediately picks you up and drags you on one of the bleakest, but still somehow hopeful adventures you’ll ever embark on. The Last of Us sees you take control of Joel, a former dad who loses his daughter on the first day of the fungus zombie apocalypse, who gets sort of forced into taking care of fungus immune Ellie, and the two of them embark on wonderful character arcs, both separately and together, that span the entire game.

The game functions both as a brilliant narrative piece and an incredibly effective horror, as the various forms of infected assailing you throughout the game, combined with the masterfully crafted stealth gameplay and dark, claustrophobic setpieces makes for one of the most immersive experiences you can find in gaming, even six years after its initial release. Moreover, the game doesn’t suffer from narrative fatigue at all, which is very rare for a game that places so much heavy focus on telling a constant story. Whether you’re focussing on Joel and Ellie’s constant struggle to find safe places to be, the stories of various other survivors you come across or sneaking and fighting your way through another horde of infected, this game will hook you in and won’t let you go until its climax. As is customary for a game as bleak as The Last of Us, it also doesn’t stray away from giving you an ending that simultaneously makes you feel relieved, but also hits you in the face as you see darker sides of the protagonists that take the narrative, and Joel and Ellie’s dynamic, to whole new levels. A game that has such a consistently strong narrative that scares you and connects with you emotionally, before tying all that off with an ending that genuinely leaves an impression and makes you think is so rare, this game deserves its place on that merit alone.

But hey, that’s not to discredit everything else that makes this game, you know, a game. Let’s talk gameplay. From start to finish, this game nails ‘easy to learn, hard to master’. Simple, smooth controls, a UI that’s intuitive and doesn’t at all break immersion, with stealth and combat that are both equally exhilarating. Not many other immersive experiences can compare to how genuinely terrifying it is to attempt to sneak a whole section of city suburb or underground subway full of clickers, but equally the adrenaline you feel beating back hoards o runners when you inevitably mess up a stealth section was enough to make me audibly scream sometimes. All this combined with one of the most brilliantly designed and integrated crafting systems I’ve ever encountered in a game, and oh boy wow I can’t put this thing down. Supplies aren’t impossible to find, but are so essential to survival that it encourages exploration of dangerous areas, which deepens that feeling of dread as you wrestle with risking your neck for a few extra shivs or med kits. The balance of difficulty here is perfected, and the crafting never feels too complicated as to take away from the overall experience. The world you explore in The Last of Us is beautiful in a way that’s haunting. Burned down cities overgrown with vines, toppled skyscrapers and twisting, infested subway tunnels paint a chilling picture of post-apocalyptic America. The overall visuals, for a game that’s turning six years old, are still absolutely stunning and I can see this holding up for years to come, with the amount of care and detail that went into this game, I can see why so many people herald it as something a bit like gaming’s Citizen Kane (might be a bit much, but people really do praise this). To match the atmosphere, The Last of Us is accompanied by a haunting soundtrack that flits between melancholy acoustic melodies and suitably spooky orchestral backing that always sets just the right mood for the scene the developers are setting.

Point is, it all just works. It’s a game that really exactly is the sum of its parts; everything about it is great, so of course the game as a whole is too. So why didn’t this make it higher on my list? I knew this game was good when I picked it up and, oh wow what do you know, it was good. For a game to be a big favourite, it usually has to take me by surprise; to grab my attention and make me remember it even if I really didn’t expect it to. Don’t take that to mean I like this game any less, because it was impactful and brilliantly made and it stayed with me enough to reach the edge of my list, but the vast majority of the rest of this countdown is going to contain some ever so slightly controversial/odd picks. So yeah, love The Last of Us, but as I said at the beginning, it’s a game I know I’ll only be able to play that one time. And that’s not usually me.

Standout Moment Award: The “boss fight” with the game’s closest thing to a human villain, David, as Ellie sneaking around a burning restaurant was the perfect culmination of everything established in the game up to that point, and more than locked this game in my list.

Standout Character Award: Ellie. An absolutely phenomenal character; brilliantly written, greatly resourceful with meaningful and believable relationships with near enough every other character and an overriding sense that you need to root for her over any other. Plus, she’s gay, so a plus for representation.

Tomorrow: No. 24; one bird’s quest to catch up on his reading list.