#let your characters deaths mean something

[nexomy]

Hi! Your intro made me think you're interpreting this as an argument. I'm just having fun spewing theories and headcanons, and I actually LOVE the thoughts you're sharing! I hope it's all good.

With that said, while I understand what you're getting at, that "caring is not an advantage" is the opposite of what John would say, that... Doesn't go against my point. At all. In fact, it very much IS the point. Let me explain:

John's character is one who, intentionally on the writers' part or not, is mainly motivated by one thing and one thing only; self-hate. John hates himself, to his bloody core. His psychosomatic limp seems to be more about survivor's guilt than anything else, and as soon as he's put back in action, as soon as death is still an option, he's fine. Which is INSANE, by the way? That this man fears life more than death? Sherlock certainly isn't like that. He loves the thrill, yeah, but to medicate his ADHD, he prefers to be in some kind of control over the situation. Meanwhile, John genuinely is just along for the ride. All the times he gets most pissed at Sherlock aren't when Sherlock is careless, or drags him along in a dangerous situation. He's upset about lies, and more specifically, when Sherlock shows even a hint of real emotion.

In THOB, what does John get truly mad at? Being drugged? Nope. Sherlock being mean to Greg? Again, nope. One might say it's the "I don't have friends", but that's not something he usually holds against Sherlock, and it's also not when he starts getting mad. It seems to me that John is upset at Sherlock for being scared in the first place. For having a panic attack.

Often, I see people wonder how John, the soldier with PTSD, didn't see it in Sherlock, when he had a panic attack. But he saw. Of course he saw. But Sherlock having a panic attack isn't reason to comfort him. It's reason to scold him. Why? Not because John doesn't care about Sherlock, or doesn't care to see him happy. Quite the opposite.

When I write a character, I choose their "default emotional response" before almost anything else. This is the thing they fall back on when they're overwhelmed, when they don't know what to do, or how to interpret things. John's default? Anger. It is always anger.

So when he sees Sherlock, this person he idolizes, this person he often uses as a self-harm tool (because I genuinely believe that that is part of the reason why John is a Sherlock addict, he's using him to hurt himself) because of how cold they can be, fall apart, well... John panics, too. A part of him can't accept that Sherlock cares, can't accept that Sherlock is human. That's the same part of him that can't accept that he's deserving of any love, let alone that of a genius. And that part? That part needs to preserve itself, in the face of Sherlock's vulnerability, by antagonizing him.

And with the Fall, the logic is the same, only accentuated. I think there's many conflicting reasons why John is upset, because humans are complex, but one is this: This is how he views their relationship.

I hate myself for not being "normal" => I want to be in pain => Wanting to be in pain isn't normal => Have to find an excuse => Sherlock doesn't care about me => That hurts => He's my friend => It's normal to have a friend, and always forgive him => I get to punish myself and still be normal

It's part of why the gay accusations hurt him so much.

But then, if Sherlock DOES care, the chain breaks. Sherlock can no longer be John's punishment, in fact, quite the opposite. John adores Sherlock, being adored back is better than what he could wish for. He cannot accept it. So the chain CAN'T break, or John would need to accept that he isn't normal, at all.

John scolds Sherlock to be more considerate, not because he wants Sherlock to be more considerate. The scolding itself is the point.

So, BASICALLY:

- If Sherlock did the Fall for selfish reasons and lied to John realizing it would hurt him, the part of John that genuinely sees him for who he is, the human, and that genuinely treasures their friendship, will be betrayed and hurt. "I thought you were more human than that, how could you? Did I waste my love on someone who felt nothing?" Ergo, anger.

- If Sherlock did the Fall for selfish reasons, but DID recognize John's feelings, then Sherlock basically intentionally hurt John for fun. The same part as point 1 will be hurt. Ergo, anger.

- If Sherlock did the Fall for SELFLESS reasons, and suffered from it, it shows genuine care, and breaks the chain beyond repair. That thought is too overwhelming for John's subconscious, ergo, anger.

I could go on. When you said that there's nothing Sherlock can do, you were right. Because John's anger isn't about Sherlock. It's a proxy. The only way for then to heal is for John to heal, and accept that he's not normal. The closest we got to that is "because you chose her". That's why the hug happens. That's the moment that should've changed things. But it didn't, because Moftiss are cruel with Johnlock.

I think John loved Mary, because she was his tether to normalcy. In part, at least. And that's why he's pissed at Sherlock because he killed Mary. It's not a literal death, and it's not literally Mary and Sherlock. It's normalcy and weirdness.

Of course, in my mind, this all happens on a subconscious level, so John would never be able to articulate all of it. But it's the only lense through which I can make sense of his character.

John is always at war with himself. On some level, he knows Sherlock cares. He knows he's not a sociopath. He knows his friend. He loves him. He wants him to find true, genuine happiness.

On another, he has to believe Sherlock doesn't care. Sherlock is the only person he can let himself cling to, the only one that feels real, because he has the benefit of the doubt. Anyone that actually cares must be lying, John isn't worth that. But Sherlock? Well, who knows if he cares or not.

The ambiguity, the constant back and forth, Sherlock's mask, it's a feature, not a bug.

(And a small point I couldn't fit in anywhere else, yeah, John doesn't care that Moriarty had to be stopped. He cared that he had to be ditched. But even that, Sherlock doesn't fully explain, and I get that John had an outburst, but John has handled Sherlock's outbursts more than once. Although I think Sherlock is doing his best, I think you're putting too much of the onus on John to fix things, partly because you understand Sherlock's perspective more than John's, because John's writing is less consistent.)

Sherlock, 4.02 The Lying Detective

[soelstress]

Those Words

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x female!reader

Summary: Bucky knows what to expects when he hears them. But what if just once they were used for something else?

Warnings: angst , some violence , character death

Word count: 2.1k

Square filled for @avengers-assemble-bingo “Bucky Barnes Birthday bingo event": Square 3 'Trigger Words’

Card - 4B011

A/N - Hello lovelies! My third entry for the above bingo event. Please don’t hate me for the angst, I promise a light hearted piece for my last entry!

The pic is sourced from Google

Do not Steal, Copy or Plagiarize any part of my work

“What the hell is this?”

“Why don’t we discuss your home? Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn. No. I mean… your real home.”

Bucky froze when he recognised that book. The book red as blood with a thick black star dark as his nightmares embossed on the cover

“Longing”

“No.” Bucky shook his head in despair and closed his eyes as the sound of screaming began to echo within his mind.

“Rusted.”

Tremors rocked his body when realised it was one person screaming. “Stop.”

“Seventeen.”

“Stop.” Bucky gritted his teeth trying to fight the pain that ripped through him, not only from the memory of the torture that Hydra subjected him to but also from the whirring and activity of his metal limb which had been dormant for 18 months.

“Daybreak.”

A scream of agony tore from Bucky’s soul as he ripped free of the restraints within the pod and began punching the door in an attempt to escape both the horror of his present situation and the memory of the screams ringing in his head and the last time he heard those words.

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

When the door of your apartment squeaked open followed by the creak of worn flooring you breathed a sigh of relief. Until that moment you hadn’t realised how worried you were. Filled with dread that he might be seen or captured and unable to return to you or even let you know what had happened to him. But he was here now.

You watched as James walked into your bedroom and sat on your bed leaving some space. As his fingers twitched with nerves you waited with what looked like patience but internally you were dying to know what happened.

After what seemed like an eternity he took a small breath. “Bucky.” You blinked in confusion. That was not how you expected him to start but waited for him to elaborate. “My name is James Buchanan Barnes. But he called me Bucky.”

“He?”

“Captain America. Steve. My best friend.”

When you caught a glance of his blank face you realised he was reciting the information emotionlessly. Cautiously you probed him. “You remember that?”

There was a pause before he shook his head. “I read it. The exhibit at the Smithsonian.” He broke off and resumed his fidgeting.

There was a swooping sensation in the pit of your stomach. This was it. His opportunity to find his friend who would hopefully be able to help restore his memories and determine his future. You shouldn’t be surprised as you had encouraged him to go to the museum and see if it would help him remember. “What now?”

He sighed heavily. “That man who fought all those years ago alongside his best friend… I’m not him. He’s gone. He was experimented on and changed into something different. And I don’t want to be what they made me. I want to be someone else.” When his flesh hand tipped your chin up you saw him looking at you with a timid smile. “These past few months I’ve started to learn about who I am now. I’d like to learn more about who I am… with you.” As he spoke a softness entered his eyes, so different to the caution you first saw months prior. The day after SHIELD had fallen both literally and metaphorically.

Debris from their headquarters along with the three helicarriers had rained down upon the city causing destruction and damage which had led to your short shift as a student nurse at a hospital in DC turning into overnight volunteering as you helped wherever possible. Once the worst injuries had been treated and a semblance of calm returned to the building you were told to go home. You were exhausted but decided to walk the few blocks home rather than get a cab hoping to clear your mind of the chaos you’d faced. As the sight of the main door entered your eye line you’d been too distracted to focus on your surroundings and notice the three men following you. They had yanked you into an alley before shoving you against a wall and demanded your purse and phone. One held a blade and had sliced your cheek when you failed to move or respond from exhaustion and your head hitting the wall. The other two held you against the wall with one hand covering your mouth to muffle any noises. A noise of pain had barely formed when they were yanked away from you. As you slid down the wall surrendering to exhaustion and pain all you saw were a pair of blue eyes that you hoped would relieve you of your pain.

The next thing you remembered was waking up in your apartment. The man had sat watching you from a chair at the foot of your bed. In short sentences he had said that he wasn’t able to take you to a hospital but had stayed with you in case you had a concussion. He had also treated the cut from the knife on your cheek. You offered him money as a reward but he declined. When you saw he was filthy and bloody you’d offered him a shower and a change of clothes which he had hesitantly accepted. While he showered you checked your phone when breaking news alerts popped up about the Avengers. Clicking on the alert you saw snippets about SHIELD, Hydra and their weapon. The Winter Soldier. The man in your shower. A ruthless assassin was in your shower. A ruthless assassin… who had saved you.

Instead of running or calling for help, you couldn’t help wanting to know why he helped you. He confirmed everything you had read but said that after SHIELD and Hydra he wanted to run and be free from their clutches. His memory was obviously flawed so you gave him the basic information the article had revealed. He had said that while this information was fresh he needed to hide until he could figure out what to do. Whether to learn about his past or to move on and leave it behind. You’d never understand why but you offered to let him stay with you. During that time you had witnessed his nightmares and tried to help comfort him in the little ways he could bear; a glass of water, a blanket or pillow to hold on to because he still flinched at the slightest contact or just sitting close by so he wasn’t alone. Slowly but surely he began to open up and a tentative friendship was born with soft touches, small smiles and him sharing the little flashes of his life before Hydra. But you knew this couldn’t go on forever, he needed to decide what to do with his life. So you started mentioning the Captain America and Howling Commandos exhibit at the Smithsonian. And today he had finally gone.

“Come with me.” You couldn’t help giggling at the puzzlement adorning James’ face. It was a look he often wore when looking at you as if there was something about you he couldn’t figure out. You gestured to a black backpack which held your passport and your savings in. “James, you know I’ve saved up to go on a long vacation. Come with me. See the world. Learn who you are.”

The next few moments were all a blur. There was a sudden bang and smoke filled the apartment. Over the ringing in your ears you could hear some noise and when you looked up James was speaking to you but there was no sound. He was suddenly yanked away from you and you were also hauled to your feet as men dressed in black with large guns swarmed into your bedroom.

You barely registered the blade pressed to your throat as James was forced to kneel with his hands restrained behind his back. Both of you knew that he could break the restraints with laughable ease. But as you struggled to free yourself the hopelessness of the situation sank in. From what little you could understand there were reinforcements coming. James refused to leave without you. And the cold reality washed over you that you were going to die. But instead of worrying about your own life and trying to fight the inevitable, your concentration was the man who had such an impact on your life in such a short time.

Shame and defeat burned through Bucky. He had failed. To escape Hydra. To free himself. But most importantly he had failed to protect you who had done so much - risked so much - for him. His actions had led to this moment. They had almost certainly followed him from the museum. Bucky trembled as he met your gaze. Why did you look so apologetic? Bucky shook his head in reassurance and tried to brave a smile which caused yours to falter. He looked away guiltily.

“Longing.” It was breathed so softly that Bucky only heard it because of his enhanced hearing.

“Rusted.” Bucky’s skin began to crawl at the familiar words before he noticed the confused muttering in the room.

“Seventeen.”

Panic began to descend when his metal fingers flexed restlessly and his arm crackled. Bucky looked up to warn you, to hope you’d remember what he’d said but the words died in his throat. He had seen so many of your expressions - happiness, sadness, anger and even pity when he told you what little he could remember of his past lift and the torture he had been subjected to with Hydra. But to watch devastation and heartbreak twist your kind features as you used the words that he had taught you to beware and that he had dared hope to never hear again. His heart plummeted, not from betrayal but dread. You weren’t using them against him. You were using them for him.

Bucky struggled to fight his captors. Even as two goons dragged you into the adjacent room you continued to scream the words which sounded odd with your poor pronunciation but also in your sweet voice. Bucky roared as the cuffs snapped with a flick of each wrist and fought his way towards the door you had been herded through. The words still bled through the walls muffled but discernible to his ears. Screaming for you Bucky began to ram against the door.

As the whole wall seems to shudder from impacts on Bucky’s side you still reeled off his words that you remembered solely from memory. Tears streamed from your eyes as your heart shattered at Bucky’s pained cries for you. You only hoped that if he remembered this that one day he might realise your intentions. The last word had barely passed your lips before ending in a wet gurgle. One of the goons had stabbed you with a blade which now stuck out of your chest as you collapsed to the floor in a heap. When silence reigned through the space the second goon went to the door which then exploded in a shower of fragments and splinters and knocked him down. A familiar figure slowly stepped closer to the man who stabbed you. Though you knew this man he did not know you. His blue eyes were cold and remote.

“Soldargh!”

You watched the man squirm in the silver chokehold which slowly cut off his circulation and dropped him carelessly to the floor. Over the pounding in your head you heard a low mumble of Russian but it wasn’t until silver fingers glided along your wound that your attention moved back to your saviour. For a moment you thought that he might do something to end your suffering but instead he stared at you and you distantly realised he was waiting for instructions.

“Run.”

You weren’t sure if he understood but the slight dip in his brows was enough to show his recognition. Spluttering through the warm metallic liquid pooling in your mouth you lifted your leaden arm and pointed to the pack in the corner. There was a moment's hesitation before he walked over to the pack and picked it up before glancing at you when he heard your breathing become slow and shallow.

“Run. Don’t let them catch you.”

Your vision began to darken but you fought with every breath to watch as he tugged the bag over his shoulder. The last thing you saw before the darkness consumed you was a pair of blue eyes that you hoped would one day forgive you.

[impactrueno]

I saw an oldish post of yours where you mention something about the musicaljuice and musicalLyds dinamic after the musical, and it was a fair thing to wonder about cause, yeah, tf do you do after that? Not a particularly openended story, in any case here's my cup of tea.

no one rlly likes beetlejuice besides Lydia and well, not just the fun parts, he helped her develop and put her in a situation where Charles had to listen to her, basically indirectly solved her daddy issues lol, don't know if Lydia would rlly think about the latter though.

But thing is he isn't rlly the ideal friend, nothing rlly happened during the musical to demonstrate growth from beetlejuice or any kind of communication with the whole "leaving him" thing from Lydia's part, in Beetlejuice's head she still was gonna leave him, bro rlly has no object permanence ANYWAY so that, it's likely that similar stuff (maybe not the full blown marriage thing but yk, a lot of misunderstandings and things happening because hr has the separation anxiety of a two month old puppy)

It would take some character development for him to not think Lydia is gonna leave him forever as soon as she walks to a different room, and bringing up another thing you said, Lydia isn't exactly the best either, they were just using eachother to feel better but it wasn't rlly sustainable, but the difference is Lydia changed and Beetlejuice didn't, and most likely he won't, similar to your toonjuice comic where he is capable of caring and he can develop yes, but he isn't gonna change, there's just so much wrong with musicaljuice he can grow in his own Beetlejuice way, but in the end of the day he's still him.

weirdly enough,both toon and musicaljuice are the more "human" of the juices in a sense, or at least, the most emotionally vulnerable and even relatable to a level (more leaning towards musical in this point, I haven't really seen much of the cartoon) because at his core he wants to connect and feel loved, he kinda sucks at both of em tho which makes it hard for any dinamic he could be a part of to work 💔

So yeah that's my thoughts sorry for the mess of dispersed ideas and the long ass text.

-🌧

yeah musicaljuice is the definitely most "human" of the three. i feel like this is because musicals thrive on exploring characters' feelings and emotions, so we get to see a lot of that from him, and that helps the audience understand him better and relate to him to a degree you wouldn't usually see in the cartoon…much less in the movies lmao (even so i still find toonjuice the most relatable. me, personally.) bj's arc in the musical really hit home for a lot of people.

but i'm gonna have to disagree with you that bj didn't change or go through character development. at the beginning of the show, death means nothing to him. we all die. let's kill some people. it's whatever. but after the wedding ceremony where he came to life just to die a minute later, when he protects lydia from his mother, he shows that his view on life and death changed quite a bit after what he just went through. he saw that lydia's life was precious and would not let his mother take that away from her. note that in Say My Name, he's stopping her from jumping off the roof only because he needs her alive, since she's the only living person who can actually see him and therefore summon him. but after the wedding, he's very selflessly protecting her right to live. not just that, but he kills his own mother (the cause of all his emotional issues) in order to save lydia. that's HUGE. symbolic, too!!

he's the only one of the juices who actually went through a character arc and showed growth by the end of it. toonjuice is notoriously bad about this sort of thing lol. and moviejuice is…..question marks. what even is he. we just don't know.

the thing is we didn't get to see much of him after the events that changed him. the only interaction he has with lydia after that is their goodbye, which was very sweet and did a great job at showing that there are no hard feelings. but like…how different would their dynamic be after all that? because it was a pretty significant shift in character from him, which would probably affect how they get along with each other.

…OR WOULD IT….?

see, there's also the possibility that they would simply go back to how they were during That Beautiful Sound. just two fucked up friends having fun in ways that only make sense to them. although maybe his abandonment issues wouldn't be such a problem after doing the incredibly cathartic act of killing his mother lmao. or maybe lydia, now understanding him a lot better, would help him figure out how to deal with his issues (this is a big maybe because she doesn't come off as the type of person who would do that…that's more of a toonlyds thing.) perhaps maybe they would talk things out, she would probably tell him "i wasn't leaving you, stupid." bro was scheming against her while she was literally upstairs gushing to the maitlands about "her monster" lol but he didn't know that!! after the whole wedding stuff and meeting his mother i think lydia would go "oh now i get why he acted so weird."

it's all one big "maybe" because i think it could go either way with these two, and it all hinges on the direction you want to take them in. you mentioned bj isn't an ideal friend, and i guess you could try making him one?? but he doesn't have to be. i certainly wouldn't expect him to be the ideal best friend, not by any sane person's standards anyway. and that's the thing about them, they're both chaotic and messed up, and it's likely they would remain so even after the events of the musical because that's just the kind of people they are. not to mention the fact that you can't get rid of bj's emotional issues overnight. all of this, and they would still be inseparable because of the unique type of connection they have. there's these posts i saw the other day that i think encapsulate them pretty well lol

i would say that the one thing we know for sure is that he now has an undying loyalty towards her. she tricked him and then killed him, and yet he still went out of his way and faced his own personal demon to save her and showed gratitude for allowing him to be alive, even if it was just for a bit.

this dumbass though. instead of scheming against her, if he wanted to become alive so he could stop being invisible, he could've just told her that. considering how big of a weirdo she is, it's so easy to imagine her agreeing to the marriage thing just to make him alive, if he had brought it up in a less insane manner lmfao but then we would have no plot now would we

[jeanforestauthor]

Hey, My Book is Great and You Should Read it For Free

Hi there! I wrote a book, and I want to let you read it for free!

In The Princess and the Peaches we follow Ethan, a young man with a lot of heart, and not much spine, who is struggling to run a small failing grocery store after the untimely death of his parents. Ethan also has the misfortune of being a thoroughly Normal Guy in a world where fairytales are far more fact than fiction.

Ethan has always lived with the understanding that magic was quite firmly None of his Business, but when a wayward Princess falls victim to a curse inside his shop, he is informed by an iron-fisted Fairy Godperson that it has suddenly become Entirely his Business.

As a result, Ethan is forced to deal with flirtatious dragons, sadistic Princes, and more than a few deep seated insecurities.

So, you may be wondering, if this book is so great, why is it free? Well, because of my burning resentment for the stranglehold of capitalism on the accessibility of art. Uh, Marketing... or something. The point is, I think my book rules, and I wanted it to find people who also thought it ruled, so here it is!

You can access it on multiple e-reading platforms, including Apple and Smashwords here:

Or on Google Play here:

If you STILL aren't totally convinced, that's cool! I generously put the first three chapters under a read-more so you can check them out without even having to leave the safe harbor of Tumblr.

Copyright © 2025 by Jean Forest

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. 

The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is intended or should be inferred.

Book Cover by Andrew Filion

First edition, 2025

Chapter 1

It was always the same dream.

For twenty-some years Ethan Green had enjoyed placid, peaceful sleep. He'd had boring, pointless dreams and loved it. Then everything had changed, and now, for four years, it had been the same stupid nightmare, every single night. He drifted through it, carried along in its insistent, unchanging rhythm.

He passed through the living room, warm and full of light. Meandered towards the door, his stride easy and unhurried. At this point, Ethan always somehow felt calm, even eager, despite knowing how this was inevitably going to end. Reflecting on it later, he knew it made a sad kind of sense. This was the only way he could see them now.

He heard them before he'd even reached the door. Laughter so deep and loud it sounded like trains passing outside the window. Then a quiet, lilting tone, rising and falling like birdsong.

With one twist of the handle, one swing of the door, he stepped out into the bright, sun drenched storefront, and for just a brief moment, everything felt right.

Ethan's gaze traveled over the deep velvety green of the walls, the worn pine floor, dappled with light. He looked at the big, arched windows, draped in the same old green gingham curtains, heard the quiet chatter of customers, and now, just like every time, he could swear he smelled the scent of sweet, ripe peaches.

And then came the moment he always anticipated. His view swept from the windows, to the neat, trim counter waiting at the front of the store, over the battered old till, up into the lively, animated face of his father.

He was exactly the way Ethan remembered him. Big as a bear and nearly as hairy, booming with laughter, his rough, calloused fingers almost too large for the spindly keys on the register. Ethan took in his twinkling eyes and crooked grin fervently, as if to fix every minute detail in his memory.

And then there, nestled in amongst the bins and barrels of fresh fruit was his mother, as small and willowy as his father was large, but no less intimidating. Her voice was bright, her movements brisk and efficient. Ethan watched her long, elegant hands tug trimly at the curtains and found himself remembering the way they'd often done the same at the collars of his shirts.

Ethan basked in this moment, like the sight of a sunset, brief and fleeting.

Because of course, it never lasted. It started with the windows, like Every. Single. Time. 

Small cracks, that began to spread, like ugly, spiraling spider webs, reaching greedily for the corners of the panes, until suddenly with a deafening crash, the air was full of cascading shards of glass.

As usual, his parents made no reaction, still cheerful, unshaken. Ethan always tried to reach them, even while knowing it was pointless.

"Dad!" He cried, working off the same unending script. "The windows! What's happening!?"

His father turned to him, a placid smile in place.

"It's alright, kiddo, don't worry. I know you can handle it." He replied in his deep, bass rumble.

Ethan stared down at his feet, shifting through the piles of shattered glass.

"But dad-"

Then the fruit would go. Where there was once jewel-bright piles of fresh, ripe produce, suddenly there would be putrid mounds of rotted fruit, their stench overpowering.

"Mom!? How did this-!?"

His mother would give him that soft, exasperated look, like he'd forgotten to comb his hair again.

"Ethan, it's okay, honey. We know you'll take care of it."

And then came the groaning, rending sound of splintering wood, and Ethan's heart would drop into his stomach. The long beams overhead would begin to tear, shaking dust from the ceiling. Every inch of the walls would begin to crack and buckle.

Ethan would look to his parents, still blissfully smiling back at him.

"Everything's falling apart! Can't you see it!? Come on, help me!" He'd cry.

"Ethan calm down," His mother would laugh, "Everything will be fine."

"Yeah kiddo," His father would add with a grin, "You'll just need to take care of it."

And like every time, Ethan would find himself brought up short, paralyzed. He'd stand in the midst of the destruction, his whole life going to ruins around him, and he'd be useless. 

"You can do it." His father would add, with such perfect, maddening certainty.

"But..." Ethan muttered, as always, his voice strangely clear among the chaos. "But I don't know how."

Ethan awoke, a few seconds before his alarm, like always, just a little too late to stop it from going off. It's grating, jangling tones piercing straight into the center of Ethan's brain.

He levered himself out of bed immediately. A Green did not snooze, he told himself wearily, not when there was work to be done. Ethan had never once in his life slept past the alarm and today was no exception. 

Groggily, he shuffled into the bathroom and stared at his reflection. There was that curly mop of comb-destroying hair. There were those same, tired brown eyes. A nose a little too long, a mouth a little too feminine, a frame far, far too scrawny.

Nothing new here.

He went through his usual routine, dressing in the same white shirt, and the same green slacks he wore just about every day of his adult life. He slipped on the same, stiff loafers, and then… Well, then the apron.

He'd thought he'd have gotten used to it by now. He'd seen it on his parents since he was a child. He'd worn it himself since he was a teenager. But somehow, it still managed to give him pause. Probably because it was hideous.

Family legend said that his great grandmother had chosen the color because it reminded her of springtime, of freshness. Most people Ethan knew would never in their wildest dreams have come to these associations. Looking at it, the words of Ethan's best friend ran through his head. 

"If that's fresh anything, it's fresh vomit. Unhealthy vomit. Go to the doctor, something's gone wrong, vomit."

But... It had been a family tradition for generations. It was the Green family's trademark.

And so, dutifully, Ethan put it on, tying it in a tight double knot, even though it made it near impossible to get off later. It was what he always did. It was how it had always been done.

With heavy feet, he trudged downstairs, into the living room.

In truth, it looked almost no different from his dreams. Everything was still in its place, untouched, as it had been for four years now. A few low couches, huddled around the room, a tall bookshelf standing sentinel in the corner, a battered TV sitting silent nearby. The same pictures, arrayed on the mantelpiece, familiar faces staring out. It was exactly the same, an almost perfect monument to the way things used to be... except.

It was so empty. Ethan had managed to preserve every inch of the room, as though nothing had changed, but somehow, like sand slipping through his fingers, he hadn't been able to keep the life that had once existed here, the almost palpable feel of warmth and joy. Now, absence seemed to hang like dust in the air. 

Well, that wasn't the only change. Slowly, Ethan made his way over to the bookshelf, and ran his fingers over the glossy, cool stone of the urn sitting high on its shelves. He muttered a quiet, customary, "Good morning." For a moment he forgot his rituals, forgot his duties, and let himself get lost.

The soft tinkle of the bell on the other side of the door jarred him out of his reverie though. There wasn't really time to pause, he reminded himself. With brisk, purposeful steps, he crossed the room and exited out of the dim, musty corners of his home, and into the bright halls of the storefront.

This too, like the living room, differed little from his dreams, although Ethan thought hopefully that the store at least, was less melancholy than the rest of the house. The soft light of sunrise was just filtering through the tall arched windows, catching in the gingham curtains, painting the pine floor. 

There was no boisterous, laughing man behind the front counter though. Instead, there sat Todd... Or lounged Todd, his sandy, brush cut head lying in a nest of insultingly well muscled arms.

This too, Ethan had to concede, wasn't exactly new. Since Ethan had begun running the shop, Todd worked every morning, the same time, same as Ethan, and yet somehow stubbornly refused to adjust himself to actually being awake during sed time. And as he had every morning,  Ethan considered that if Todd hadn't been his best friend, he'd probably have fired him by now. That, and he was pretty good at moving boxes.

Sighing, Ethan made his way over to the stool Todd had precariously perched himself on and gave it a lazy kick. Todd awoke with a start, scrambling to keep upright.

"Am I keeping you awake Todd?" Ethan asked with a weary smile.

"Bro, you are single handedly destroying my sleep cycle, but what else is new?" Todd replied groggily, "Why'd you wake me up? You don't even need me for anything."

"The produce shipment-" Ethan began.

"-Probably won't come until noon," Todd concluded sourly.

Ethan scowled. "You've noticed that too huh? He used to come first thing a few years ago... Now he's been coming later and later..."

"Fine by me, I'm in no hurry to play packhorse." Todd replied with a jaw cracking yawn.

"It's your job Todd. Being awake, by the way, is also your job."

"Yeah, when there's shit to do. Trust me, I'll be all over those boxes when they come. I'll hit those boxes like they owed me money. Fuckin' Prince of boxes over here. But for now, no boxes, no customers... So no Todd," He muttered, laying his head down again.

"Todd, come on man. You've gotta do something. Remember what dad used to say? If you've got time to lean-"

"- You've got time to clean, yeah I remember. And don't get me wrong bro, your dad was a regular fountain of wisdom, but it's gonna be a long friggin' day. The dust will still be there after my power nap." 

Shaking his head, Ethan abandoned his efforts to rouse Todd and fetched his old push broom from its resting place nearby. 

It was worn, it's bristles tattered, it's paint chipped, and it was heavier than a broom had any right to be, the shaft made of what Ethan suspected was solid metal, but it had been in the family for generations, and it fit in Ethan's hand like it was made just for him. 

Wearily, he took it and made a few halfhearted swipes at the floor, but had to concede that all he was doing was likely wearing more of the already thin varnish off the boards. He'd spent most of last night aimlessly sweeping too, after all. It wasn't like there were customers to keep them busy.

Todd looked up, and seemed to notice the despondent look on Ethan's face. 

"Hey man, I'm just fuckin' around. You know I'll work hard today." 

"Yeah Todd, I know, I'm not really worried about you," Ethan replied quietly.

Todd stood and made his way over to Ethan,  awkwardly clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Don't worry so much dude. Things will get better. Today's gonna be different! I can feel it!" Todd exclaimed with as much enthusiasm as one could have at six in the morning.

"I don't really want it to be different," Ethan sighed,"I'd rather things... went back to being the same."

Todd scowled. "Well, tough. I said today's gonna be different, and it will. You wait and see, bro."

"Alright," Ethan laughed, "If you say so."

As the day wore on, things certainly seemed far from different.

As Todd predicted, the produce shipment came extraordinarily late. True to his word, Todd tackled the task with gusto. Ethan was forced to admit, when there was actual work to be done, Todd was a model employee. It was just sheer boredom that tripped him up. Unfortunately, boredom was the one commodity they had in plenty at the store. Once the crates were squared away, the produce stocked, there was little else to be found, because as Ethan had predicted, only a few, meandering customers made their way into the store all day. Even fewer had bought anything. 

As evening began to fall, Ethan gradually found that even he was running out of mindless busywork for himself, and so, he began to fall back on entertaining Todd's inane chatter.

"Hey, bro!" Todd called from the front of the store. From where Ethan stood, crowded in the far corner, surrounded by crates of fruit, he could only just make out Todd's frame leaning languidly on the counter, a newspaper in hand. "Did you read this story? The one in the paper today?"

"You mean that paper we're supposed to be selling?" Ethan sighed.

"Yeah, whatever dude, listen up. Apparently there was a dragon attack in South Mills. Isn't that crazy?"

Ethan scowled. "A dragon? An actual like... wild dragon? I thought those were pretty rare."

"Yeah, I know right? I guess it's the first attack in like, five years or something," Todd paused, laying down the paper, "Hey... do you think something like that could happen here?" He added, in a tone far more hopeful than frightened.

"Here?" Ethan didn't even give the question a moment's consideration, "No way. That stuff happens out in the country, not in the middle of downtown. Not here."

"I dunno, could happen. Oh! like I heard from my cousin’s friend's sister, there was that place down on Pine St, that mom and pop diner? Anyhow, so I guess the health inspector was due to visit, and they were freaking out because they'd never make the grade, right? And then like, overnight, they get one of those... Uh, those little bastards... What're they called? Something like food... a muffin?"

"A Brownie," Ethan supplied wearily.

"Yeah! That's the thing! Anyhow, I guess one of those moves in, and suddenly the next morning their kitchen is totally clean and up to code! So see man, that kind of thing happens around here."

Ethan shook his head. "Don't hold your breath Todd. This place isn't exactly magical."

Ethan had always been vaguely aware of Magic, in the same way one could be vaguely aware that elephants existed. It was a part of life for some people, and sometimes interesting to hear about, but Ethan sure as hell didn't want it in his shop. A Green, he could almost hear his father saying, did not rely on Magic. Hard work, courage and love had their own magic, he would state, and it was all their family ever needed. Ethan held by this attitude dutifully... Not that anything remotely Magical had ever shown up at his door. Life at the shop had been blissfully routine for years, so much so that it was almost easy to forget that Magic even existed to begin with.

"Still, it'd be cool," Todd muttered.

Ethan smirked. "What, you want a dragon to come burn the shop down?" 

Todd heaved a sigh. "Well at least then I'd get weekends off..."

Ethan paused, a twinge of guilt running through him. "Look..." He began awkwardly, "I'm... I'm really sorry you've had to work so much lately. It's just, you know, money's tight... I can't really afford to hire..." 

"Bro," Todd cut in with a laugh, "Shut the fuck up man. I don't care. I didn't really mean what I said, you know that."

"I... Yeah," Ethan sighed, "I just... Feel bad."

"You always feel bad. Constantly. You're like a little rain cloud of pure downer. Come on, bro, don't take me so seriously. I don't." 

"Yeah okay. Just, I don't wanna be that boss, y'know?"

"You aren't dude. Calm down. Sweep or something, that'll cheer you up." 

"Great advice. Thanks, Todd." Ethan shot back sarcastically.

"Anytime." Todd replied with cheerful sincerity.

Aggravatingly, as closing hour neared, Ethan really was still sweeping. 

There was no real aim. He just skated his broom around the shop, letting his mind wander, trying to keep visions of red ink and out of business signs out of his head. He was startled out of these thoughts however, by a sharp jab to the back.

"Ow! F-Fudge!" He muttered.

He heard Todd creak on his stool. "The spinning wheel?" He drawled lazily.

Ethan wheeled to eye the contraption in question. "Yeah, the stupid thing."

"Goddamn, that's got to be the fifth time this week. You'd think you'd steer clear of that thing by now.”

"You'd think..." Ethan muttered darkly.

He hated that spinning wheel. Hated it. Nearly every day of his life he'd had to dodge its spindle, jutting out into the aisles, taking up precious space. But his mother, and his grandmother, and her mother before that had been enamored with it. Made the place look rustic, they'd said, homey. Made it a death trap, Ethan thought murderously to himself. But still, he couldn't bring himself to remove it. It was a part of the shop. Tradition. 

He was still rubbing his sore back when the smell met his nose. He felt his stomach sink. Rotten fruit. Again. Just what he needed.

Striding over to the produce, he bent over the bin of peaches and poked at them experimentally. Their flesh gave way, revealing their slick, browning insides, releasing that same putrid odor. Ethan suppressed a groan of frustration.

"Todd!" He called.

"Yeah, what?"

"Did you forget to swap out yesterday's peaches?"

Todd poked his head down the aisle, scowling. "No man. I restocked those today, my own two hands."

"They're friggin' rotten again!" 

"Again? That's weird. They looked okay when I stocked them, I guess," Todd shrugged.

"Well, they're garbage now," Ethan sighed.

Grumbling, Ethan seized a trash bag and set about the unenviable task of discarding the moldering peaches. He was so consumed by his frustration that he didn't even hear the bell tinkling on the front door. After a few minutes though, he couldn't help but notice Todd's frantic attempts to get his attention from behind the counter.

"Bro!" Todd hissed, "Bro c'mere! C'mere c'mere!"

Ethan wasn't sure why Todd was bothering to whisper, considering that he was also windmilling his arms enthusiastically. With a sigh, Ethan set down his bag and wandered over.

"What is it, Todd?" He asked wearily.

"Check it, bro. Unbelievable," Todd breathed, gesturing down the central aisle.

Ethan followed his gaze. It was a girl. That was unsurprising. Todd never hesitated to point out a shapely looking lady or two, with just as much finesse as he was doing now. Ethan usually didn't humor these gawking sessions, a little too respectful and very much too terrified to scope out women, but this time, he found he couldn't quite tear his eyes away.

She was beautiful. Radiantly, impossibly beautiful. 

She was short, but not too short, perhaps a full head below Ethan. Her hair was cropped startlingly, boyishly close, but it was a color that Ethan, though a not poetic sort, could only describe as honey-gold. Though she wore loose, casual clothes; a t-shirt, jeans, a scarf hanging about her neck, she bore them as if they were the finest regalia. 

She stood near the coolers, inspecting a drink, and as she moved Ethan found himself taking in even the tiniest aspects of her delicate form. She had slender, perfect fingers. Rosy, cherubic, perfect lips. A pert, perfect nose. Indeed as Ethan stared, he began to realize that just about everything on her was perfect, in a very uniform, depthless kind of way. This idea suddenly changed his awe to unnerved fixation. There was something... uncanny about her.

If you'd asked a man to describe what a perfect woman looked like, aside from her haircut and clothes, they likely would have rattled off her exact attributes. There were no flaws, no quirks, nothing curious or odd on her body anywhere. Not a single freckle, beauty mark, scar, wrinkle. She was of perfect proportion, curvaceous, but not overly so. Her ears were cute ears, her brows were cute brows. Even before he caught sight of her eyes, he could predict their color, a pure brilliant sky blue. The entire effect was one of a lovely woman, to make no mistake, but something struck him as off. She seemed so... generically gorgeous. So... homogenized.

Still, she was a girl, and she was beautiful, and so Todd's next words brought a twist to Ethan's stomach.

"Go talk to her, bro."

Ethan whirled to face Todd. "What!?" He hissed.

"Yeah, dude, go talk to her! One of us has to! We can't let a babe like that walk out the door without saying something!"

"Yes we can! And why me!?"

Todd shrugged. "I know my limits dude. A girl like that? Wouldn't say two words to me. But you've got that whole kicked-puppy thing going on. Girls love that. Go talk to her."

"I... What?"

"Besides, you deserve a break. Maybe if you got a girlfriend you'd stop moping for once."

"I am not going to go over there and hit on her!" Ethan exclaimed, a little more loudly than he'd intended. He froze, panicked for a moment. Had she heard? He snuck a glance at her, but she was still staring impassively at her drink. He could have sworn he heard a snicker though.

"Relax dude. I didn't tell you to go ask her to marry you. Just say something to her."

"Like what!?" Ethan demanded quietly.

"I don't know man, like, "Hey, need help finding anything?" At the very least you gotta go help her out. It's good customer service."

Ethan paused. In a roundabout way, Todd was right. She was a customer, and so far all he'd done was stare at her. His parents would be mortified.

"Okay, well... yeah. I'm going to go help her. But I mean... Just because it's my job," He stammered.

"Sure bro. Good luck. I'll be here, thinking up baby names for you."

Ethan scowled and shook his head, but nonetheless gathered his courage and began to approach the mystery girl. He saw her gaze slant over to him, and it hit him like an electric shock. Suddenly Ethan became painfully aware of his every flaw, and imagined a few new ones for good measure. Was he walking funny? Did he always walk like that? How did walking work again?

His suddenly stilted gait carried him to her, and as she stared up at him expectantly, he remembered that now he was supposed to talk.

"Hhhh...." He began. It was supposed to be Hi, but the I had jumped ship somewhere between his brain and his lungs. "So, can I... find... anything?"

Somewhere, in the back of his skull, a cruelly rational part of him began dissecting his sentence, and concluded that it was at least missing a verb and a pronoun. It decided that the obvious remedy to this problem was to make him blush furiously. The girl bit her lip. Ethan wasn't sure what this was supposed to mean, but he had a suspicion it meant something, in the mystic language of girl. 

"Uh, yeah, no, I'm just looking at the sodas," She replied with a fluttering smile.

She had a soft, lilting voice. The kind you expected to hear raised in song. Just listening to it Ethan had the impression that pan flutes and violins were on standby.

"Oh. Okay. Sodas are... good," Ethan murmured. He could hear Todd's hand hit his forehead all the way from the front of the store.

"Yeah, uh... right. So..." The girl murmured back awkwardly.

"So..." Was all Ethan could manage to reply.

He knew this was his cue to walk away. But he just... couldn't. It was as if something intoxicating was radiating off this girl, like a perfume. It fixed him to his place, denying him the dignity of a hasty retreat. He was struggling for some kind of rational explanation for this when the girl cleared her throat.

"Look," She began. Her lyrical voice had taken on a wearied, flat tone, to very odd effect. "I'm sorry. This isn't your fault."

"Wait, what's not my fault?" 

"The awkwardness."

Her bluntness was surprising, but somehow Ethan found himself laughing. "Oh. No. I'm pretty sure it's all my fault. It's kind of what I do."

The girl laughed in return, and it sounded like bells. "No, seriously though. I have this effect on everyone. It's not just you."

Ethan's mouth beat his brain. "Well, yeah, because you're gorgeous."

From the front came the distinct noise of Todd falling off his chair.

To his relief and bewilderment, she laughed again. "Uh huh. I know. It's kind of part and parcel of the whole gig. I'm, uh... Well see, I'm a Princess."

Ethan blinked. Even as his mouth was saying, "What?" His mind was quickly putting the pieces together. It made sense, actually.

Up to now, Ethan had only seen Princesses on the television, generally being paraded as some kind of prize in reality shows. The formula was always the same, a few handsome Princes, some perilous trials, and in the end, a happily ever after, or so the tabloids purported. The Princess in question had always stuck Ethan as more of a prop than a person, bubbly, vacuous, grinning glossily as men risked life and limb in the pursuit of their hands, cooing breathlessly as they were carried away into the sunset like hunted pelts on the back of some ridiculous horse. And they all looked the same. A minor variation in hair or skin color, height, features, but nearly always the same, tame, brand name beautiful. Looking at this girl now, he realized that she fit the same mold perfectly, as though she'd been crafted on the same assembly line.

At any rate, Princesses, like Magic, were something that didn't happen to Ethan Green. So despite instantly believing her confession, it took a few moments for the gears in his head to restart.

"Yeah, so, I guess it's normal that you're... y'know, staring and everything," She muttered, "It's okay. Well actually it's not okay, I mean, it's kind of a pain in the ass, but it's not like you're the only one." 

Ethan shook his head. "I... I'm sorry. I just... Why are you in my shop!?" He blurted.

The Princess regarded him frostily, a strange expression on her angelic face. "Excuse me?"

"No! No no, I didn't mean that like, 'Get out of my shop or anything' it's just that... Aren't you guys usually-?" 

Her expression only darkened, her long fingers gripping the top of her soda viciously. "Aren't we usually what? Fawning out windows, waiting for our Prince to come? Embroidering our wedding gowns? What are you saying, 'Shouldn't you be in your tower?!'" 

"No! No, jeez, no," Ethan cried, holding his hands up placatingly, "I just... You're here, doing... Normal people stuff. I mean, Princesses aren't... Normal."

Somehow, he knew it was the wrong thing the moment he said it. Still, he didn't expect the tears that sprang up in her eyes.

"No. We're not. Thanks for reminding me." She seethed. Roughly, she jammed the soda back into the cooler, and wheeled around. Ethan expected her to storm off, but instead she froze.

"Miss? Please Miss... Uh, or your highness, or... whatever. I'm sorry." Ethan stammered out.

She didn't turn, didn't move. 

"Miss? Are you alright?" 

He walked as close as he dared to her. She was still fixed in place, and as Ethan watched her, he could see she was barely breathing. Baffled, he followed her gaze. She was staring, wide eyed, unblinking, at the spinning wheel.

She let out a small, defeated breath. Spoke only two words.

"Oh, fuck."

Then, moving like a woman possessed, she stepped forward, stretched out a hand, and pricked her finger on the spindle.

Then dropped like a sack of rocks.

Chapter 2

Ethan gaped for a second, staring at her sprawled body, stepping away from it like it was toxic. It took him a few seconds to find his voice. It took him longer to form actual words.

"Oh fu- Oh sh- Oh God. Oh god oh man. Ohhhhhh god oh man oh god..."

"Bro?" Came Todd's voice tentatively from the front.

"TODD!" 

"Whoa, Bro, what!?" Todd called, scrambling out from behind the counter. 

"TODD!" Ethan cried again, pointing to her prone body.

"OH SHIT!" Todd yelped, jumping back. "WHAT THE FUCK, BRO!? I told you to talk to her, not club her like a fucking seal!"

"I didn't! I was talking to her, and then she flipped out, and then she... died?"

"OH FUCK, IS SHE DEAD!?" Todd roared.

"I DON'T KNOW! I don't know! I don't know, I just... SEE THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN I TALK TO GIRLS!"

Todd let out a small burst of hysterical laughter. "Oh shit, Bro, you're a real lady killer."

"NOT FUNNY!" 

"Okay. Okay, just chill, just... Just chill," Todd took a deep breath, ran his hands through his crop of hair, "Okay. First aid right? Do we check her pulse, or... CPR? Mouth to mouth?" He offered vaguely.

"I wouldn't recommend that." Came a dry voice from behind them. 

Both of them jumped. Todd let out what could only accurately be described as a squeal. 

Whirling, Ethan came face to face with the most bizarre looking woman he'd ever seen in his life.

She wasn't quite young, but she wasn't quite old either. Something about her eyes suggested a certain august maturity, but her face had a glossy, flawless quality to it, not unlike the Princess. Her hair was a faint lavender, pulled into a rather intricate bun at the crown of her head. In truth, everything about her was lavender, from her severe, sensible pumps to her glittering, wire rim spectacles. She even seemed to emanate a nearly imperceptible lavender aura. Her clothes smacked of the same sickly hue. Ethan was just a bit at a loss for how to describe them though.

It looked like a pantsuit, tailored by someone given only the barest description of what that entailed, and with a fanciful imagination. Flairs and curlicues and embroideries plagued the thing. Ethan absently made out that her buttons were in fact twee little violet butterflies. 

And then of course, there were the wings. Gossamer, gaudy affairs, in the same precise shade of Lavender. They reached above her head, and came to an almost menacing hooked peak. They swallow-tailed beneath her, trailing just above the ground.

Ethan absorbed all of this in just a few stunned seconds. Sheer panic made him a studious observer. As the shock wore off, he felt Todd, gripping his arm so hard he was losing sensation.

"Whathafuckisthat?" Todd squeaked.

The woman... person... thing, straightened her glasses and scowled. 

"My name is Louise. I'm your Godperson attendant for this juncture," She answered. Her voice was somewhere in a bland, middle range, sterile and professional, the type of voice one chose for answering machine menus.

"Our what?" Ethan breathed.

"Here, take my card." She twiddled her fingers and in a blink of an eye a small card appeared in her hand, lavender of course. As Ethan took it, he noted absently that it gave off a strange, nauseatingly sweet smell.

"Wherethafuckyoucomefrom?" Todd cut in again.

"I teleported. Standard procedure. Much more efficient than flying," She stated as if this were self-evident, "Now, before we continue chatting, I have to observe protocol," She cleared her throat, staring Ethan square in the face. Her eyes were god damn lavender colored, "We have received notice that on these premises, a Princess has succumbed to a Curse, and as such as initiated her Trial Phase."

She had a remarkable ability for pronouncing capital letters. Everything was said with an inflection of slight annoyance.

"Uh, Miss Godperson... Louise. Ma'am. May I ask a few questions?" Ethan ventured, struggling to tread water.

"By all means."

"Okay. So. Princess?" 

"Her." Louise replied flatly, pointing to the girl sprawled on the floor.

"Okay... Curse?"

"The Spinning Wheel's Spindle. A rather old fashioned method. Usually avoided nowadays, the whole Coma business can put Princes off rather a bit, but it was deemed... Necessary in her case. Nonetheless, it was rather hard to trigger. I have to say I'm grateful for your assistance in that matter."

"Assist? I didn't push her into the thing!" Ethan exclaimed.

"Of course not. It would have drawn her in the moment she saw it. All the same, I'm glad you have one lying around. They're hard to come by."

"I... Yeah, sure... Anyhow. Uh... Trial Phase?"

"Ah, now here is where we really talk business. Are you the owner of these premises?" She demanded, fixing Ethan with a piercing gaze.

For a moment, Ethan almost said no. Some part of him still knew it as his parents' house. Their shop. Their home. But no, it was only his now.

"Yes. Yes I'm the owner," He nodded.

"Well then, as such, you are required, by code, to permit the use of these premises for use in the Princess' trials, and house her person until such a time as the trials are complete and a suitable Prince has awoken her."

"Waitwaitwait," Todd chimed in, "Trials? Like... Those crazy fuckin' things we see on TV? Riding up glass hills, and slaying dragons and shit?"

Louise looked at Todd as one might regard a diseased dog. "Yes, sir. Those sorts of trials. It's customary, once a Princess enters her Trial Phase, for Princes to compete for her hand. The onus of hosting these trials always falls on the owner of the-"

"Premises the Princess conks out on," Ethan surmised.

"In the cases of Magically Induced Comas, yes," Louise agreed.

"So you're going to roost a dragon in my SHOP!?" Ethan roared.

"There's no need to become excitable," Louise huffed, "Any and all damages you suffer will be compensated for. Honestly, most people are delighted to host Trials. It can be quite lucrative, you know."

"Lucrative?" Todd mumbled.

"Indeed. If you so choose, many Media outlets are happy to televise the proceedings, and pay a handsome fee for the privilege."

"No," Ethan replied firmly.

"Are you sure? It's quite routine nowadays," Louise replied airily.

"No. No media, no money, no... No trials! I don't want this! Take the girl but leave me alone!" He cried.

A look of frosty severity crossed Louise's face, momentarily contorting it into something that appeared not entirely human. Both he and Todd backed up a step. "You Don't Have A Choice Mr. Green," She intoned, every capital crisp.

"But... But this is my shop! It's my family's shop, it's been ours for generations!" Ethan protested.

"From the minute that girl fainted on your floor, for all intents and purposes, this shop became property of Fate, Mr. Green," Louise insisted.

"You can't..."

"I can. I will. You have very little choice in the matter. What choice you do have, I suggest you exercise wisely." She put firmly. Ethan felt the argument close like a pair of iron doors. "Now, as I said, you can still make a fine profit from this venture-"

"No, I still stand by what I said. No cameras." Ethan pressed. She was right. If this was the only choice he had, he was going to make the proper one. The Greens did not indulge in spectacle. The Greens didn't caper for money. The Greens did not seek fame. These were truths Ethan understood as firmly as his own name.

"Suit yourself," Louise dismissed, "It's not required. All that is required is that you don't impede the process. Do what you like with the Princess' body. Whatever is most convenient. I warn you though, lest you get visions of glory, that kissing her would be ill advised. Or any other kind of... miscreancy with her body, but kissing will have the most adverse effects."

"I... What!? No! God no! I'm not kissing a girl in a coma!" Ethan exclaimed. 

"Fuckin' right! That's creepy as balls!" Todd nodded.

"Good. See to it you maintain that attitude and I think we'll have a very amicable partnership." Louise declared cordially.

Ethan was less than reassured. He looked around his shop and fervently began to wish he really had told the Princess to get the hell out, customer service be damned.

"Oh cheer up," Louise pronounced. She sported something that it took several seconds for Ethan to realize was supposed to be a smile. "You're about to be aiding in the pursuit of True Love." 

She pronounced the last two words in such a fashion that Ethan almost saw the letters TM floating after them.

"I... Okay?"

"Don't worry, dear," The endearment came off more than a little scripted, "I'll take care of the particulars. All you have to do is sit back and stay out of the way. Who knows, you may even find it entertaining."

"I... But... Okay?"

"Good lad. Now then. I have a lot of business to attend to. We must get cracking as soon as possible, very eager to wrap this case up. That being said, how does tomorrow night, around nine o'clock fetch you?"

"For what?" Ethan asked numbly. 

"Well the trial of course!" Louise exclaimed, "Honestly, do keep up."

"Uh, well, it is after close," Ethan reasoned lamely.

"Lovely. Works for both of us. Good to see you're becoming more agreeable." Louise flashed another dubious smile. 

"I... Yeah, no problem," Ethan replied dazedly.

"Well, if that's all that sorted, I'll be on my way. You can expect the Dragon sometime around Eight, I expect."

"The... wait, what, seriously!?" Ethan exclaimed.

"Good day!" Louise replied brightly. There was a slight flash, a small sound like rushing air, and then she was gone.

He and Todd stood stock still for what must have been minutes. When Todd finally released his grip on Ethan's arm, he left sweaty fingerprints on his shirt.

"Dragon," Ethan muttered absently, "She said Dragon."

"And you said this shit doesn't happen here!" Todd replied with a faint laugh.

"Why Dragons? Why here? Why... Why me?" Ethan whispered. He looked to Todd frantically. "Did I like, murder someone and forget about it? Kick some kittens? How did my luck get this bad!?" 

"Well, you did get this chick zonked," Todd chuckled, prodding the girl with his foot.

"Don't kick her! God, what do we do with her? We can't just leave her here," Ethan moaned. Looking at her, sprawled on the hard floor, he already felt a bit guilty he'd ignored her as long as he had. 

"We could prop her up in the corner, tape her eyes open, scare the shit out of shoplifters."

"Todd!"

"Alright, dude, just kidding."

"It'll have to be the couch I guess," Ethan sighed, "Come on, help me move her."

Awkwardly, Ethan bent and slipped his hands under her arms, and Todd obligingly gathered up her legs. Lifting her, Ethan found she was actually rather light. He guessed that Todd could have lifted her on his own, but it would have hurt his pride to admit he himself likely couldn't. Together, they shuffled her into the living room. 

"She's not really breathing, Eh?" Todd ventured quietly.

Ethan had noticed the same thing. She looked still as death, but her skin was warm, her face rosy. "Yeah... It's creepy," He grunted as he struggled.

"Fuckin' creepy," Todd echoed.

Gesturing with his head, Ethan guided Todd over to the low, green couch set flush against the stairwell. "I don't know if her heart's beating either," He said as they laid her down.

Todd looked down at her, shook his head. "Nope. Nope I don't think it is."

Ethan shuddered. "So creepy."

Todd nodded, then considered a moment more. "Hey so... Hopefully that means she doesn't have to pee, right?" 

"Oh jeez. Oh wow that's gross but, yeah."

"Or eat. Or drink or anything..."

"God, where is that stupid Fairy Godperson when you need her?" Ethan hissed.

"More like Fairy Godbitch. What a cu-"

"Todd!"

"Country fried fool, as my grandma used to say," Todd recovered. 

Ethan shot him a smirk, but looking down at the stranger on his couch, he began to get the sensation that he was sliding down a very steep ravine. In actuality, it was a feeling he'd had for a very long time now, but the pace of his descent had gotten markedly faster.

"Bro? You okay?" Todd ventured quietly.

Ethan looked up, aware he'd been staring into space. "Yeah… I mean, well no, but yeah."

"I hear you. Weird fuckin' day, right?"

"Yeah, no kidding," Ethan laughed softly.

They fell into silence again for a minute. Todd seemed to become aware of his surroundings all of a sudden. 

"Hey. I just realized. I haven't been back here in like, years. Man, nothing's changed," He remarked.

"Yeah," Ethan replied vaguely. He knew Todd hadn't. No one had, except for a few well-wishing aunts, uncles, cousins, but even they'd stopped visiting months ago. The Princess was the first person to make use of the couch in ages. It always felt too big to sit on alone.

"So what now man?" Todd asked hesitantly.

Ethan shrugged. "I guess... We just close up. Go to bed, right?"

"That's it? You sure I can't do anything else?" 

"No. Wait, yeah," Ethan considered, "Can you... Can you get rid of that stupid spinning wheel for me? Just wrap it in a tarp and stick it in storage or something?"

Todd gaped openly, "Wait, for real?"

Ethan nodded wearily, "Uh, yeah. If it's not too much trouble."

"Hell no! I'd cart that fucking thing to an active volcano if you asked me, bro! But, I mean, I thought you wanted to keep it around. Because of... You know..."

Ethan knew. Some part of it felt like a betrayal, even thinking about discarding it. It was a piece of his memories, something his mother had been fond of… But he HATED it. The thing had stretched his tolerance just by hulking in the corner, but now it seemed it was actively trying to spite him. No more. It had to go.

"Yeah, Todd. I knew I said we should keep it around but... Well that's before I knew the thing was a friggin' Princess trap.," He laughed.

Todd chuckled in return. "It was like a freaking predator man! Waitin' for nubile young Princesses to wander into its clutches. It was probably practicing on you all these years."

"I don't look like a Princess," Ethan pouted.

"Sure, whatever you say, bro." Todd laughed. Turning, he strode on his heel, whistling cheerfully.

Chapter 3

The store closed and the spinning wheel properly squared away, Todd left, and Ethan found himself alone in his silent house. 

Well not quite alone. 

Standing in the living room, he caught himself staring at the Princess again. It was embarrassing, but in truth it was hard not to. Not because of her extraordinary beauty, though that was a factor, but because Ethan couldn't shake the eerie, unnatural sensation she engendered in him. His eyes fixed on her hair. It seemed... Longer somehow. He could have sworn it was just an inch when she'd walked in, but now it seemed long enough to brush her earlobes. That was impossible right? 

Confounded, he let it go. He'd already been through at least four or five things he thought impossible today. What was a few extra inches of hair compared to a half-dead girl on your couch?

Wearily, he fixed himself a haphazard supper before wandering off to his bed. Slowly, he went through his morning ritual in reverse, struggling with the knot on his apron, shuffling off his shoes, combing his hair, culminating with a brief, despondent look in the mirror. Finally, he threw himself down on his bed.

Ethan's nerves were frazzled, his mind racing, but the benefit of a long day of hard work was that it was nearly impossible to suffer insomnia. Ethan had never once in his life had trouble falling asleep, and tonight was no exception.

It began the same way.

He glided into the living room, drenched with light, radiant, warm.

He headed for the doorway, eager, hopeful.

He heard their voices. Thunder and birdsong. So close and so familiar it made his heart bleed.

He reached out a hand for the doorknob and...

Suddenly, discordantly, the door flew open. A small figure pushed its way through it, walking so briskly they bumped into Ethan's chest, giving a small squeak of surprise. Baffled, Ethan looked down.

It was her.

The Princess, in all her uncanny glory. She stared up at him with her vivid blue eyes, her honey hair cropped short over her brow. Ethan stared, open mouthed at her for a long minute, his bleary mind scrabbling to understand.

"Y-you!?" He exclaimed at length.

The girl scowled up at him. Roughly, she pushed him backwards a few steps, shutting the door behind her. "Hey, douche," She replied scathingly.

Ethan tried once or twice to speak, but words wouldn't come. He grasped at his hair, frustration, panic, confusion all battling in his chest. 

"What are you doing here!?" He cried, when his voice finally decided to show up.

She shrugged, avoiding his eyes.  "I got bored I guess. Saw this was open. Decided to snoop." 

"But... What!? How are you here, you... you're unconscious on my couch!" 

The girl rolled her eyes. "Yeah. Which is why I'm stranded in fucking dreamland, isn't it?"

"D-Dreamland?"

"Limbo, purgatory, the veil, whatever you want to call it. I got bored cruising around in the dark, figured I'd come crash this dream. I didn't know it was yours," She said with a note of disgust.

"A... a dream," Ethan murmured dazedly.

Suddenly, he heard it again, the bass rumble of his father's laugh. It drew him like a magnet. Instinctively, he tried to shift around the girl, but she noticed his maneuver and leaned against the door, arms crossed.

"Move," Ethan demanded.

"Yeah, I'm not done talking to you," The girl snorted.

Ethan began to feel frantic. "You need to move."

"Why?"

"Because I need to be out there! Move!"

"You don't need to be anywhere, it's a dream," She dismissed with another roll of her eyes.

"Move!"

"So have you tried to kiss me yet?" The girl replied, her voice casual, but her glance cutting.

Ethan paused, becoming aware that his breathing was galloping away from him. "W-What?"

"Well, you were hitting on me before. I figured you probably tried to get lucky right?"

Ethan could feel himself flush scarlet, though from indignation or humiliation he didn't know. "I was NOT hitting on you, I was... offering assistance. And no, I don't kiss girls in comas, but y'know, thanks for assuming!"

"Oh, seriously! You expect me to believe you didn't try to cop a feel!" The girl shot back. There was a ragged edge to her voice, something verging on tears, but Ethan barely noticed through his rage.

"No! Jesus, no!" He shouted, throwing up his hands.

"I know how it is! You get a pretty Princess in your shop, she passes out, is totally at your mercy. Figured I was public property anyhow!? Thought it was your lucky day!?"

Even high and screaming her voice was aggravatingly lovely. Her flushed face and teary eyes were still picturesquely perfect. It only threw fuel on Ethan's anger.

"LUCKY!?" He roared. A few tight, hysterical laughs bubbled out of his chest. "LUCKY!? You think it's LUCKY when a stranger passes out in your store!? You think it's LUCKY when some psychopathic fairy-lawyer from hell tells you she can do whatever she likes with your home!? You think it's LUCKY when... when everything you love could be burned to the ground tomorrow!? Is THAT your idea of LUCKY!?" Ethan buried his face in his hands, and took a few, sharp breaths before continuing. "I didn't ask for this! I didn't ask for you, or your curse, or any of this... So just... God, will you please just leave me alone and get out of the way?" 

He looked at her face for the first time since he'd begun his tirade. She stared back, wide eyed, lips pursed. Her bitterness was gone, but she still remained frozen in place.

"Why do you want to get back there so bad?" She asked in a small, blank voice. "It's just your storefront. It's barely even different from when I saw it."

Ethan's patience had dissolved. Roughly, he pushed her arm aside, grasped for the doorknob.

"I need to see them," He answered flatly.

"See who?" She still stood stubbornly in the way. Ethan turned the knob, tried to prop it open. 

"My parents," Ethan continued, an edge of desperation entering his voice.

"But it's just a dream-" 

"I need to see them before they disappear!" Ethan cried, wrenching at the door.

He heard the girl give a small gasp, and suddenly she sprang away from the door. Ethan flung it open, heart beating wild with anticipation, but...

There was nothing.

The doorway opened into darkness. A complete and unending void.

"I... What... What happened?" Ethan whispered.

He reached out a tentative hand, pawed at the abyss beyond. He felt only dry, empty cold meeting his touch.

"They... They're gone. It's gone. Everything's gone," He intoned.

"It's just a dream," Came the girl's voice, meek, soft. 

"They're gone," Ethan repeated, choking over the last syllable.

Ethan slowly backed away from the door, shut it. The endless blackness was more than he could bear. He felt tears gathering in the corners of his eyes, and shakily raised his hand to cover them. He stood in silence for what must have been a very long time, grappling with the void that swelled inside him, the echo to that dark and empty doorway.

"They aren't gone forever," The girl chimed in.

Ethan took a quick, gulping breath. "Yeah. Yeah they are," He replied thickly. 

The girl didn't reply, but her silence was answer enough.

There was another long pause, as Ethan tried to collect himself, tried to just breathe. Eventually though, he couldn't ignore the feel of the girl's eyes on him. Wearily, he straightened up, turned to face her.

"What do you-" 

"I'm sorry!" She blurted.

Ethan blinked.

"What?"

"I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry!" She cried. Perfect, crystalline tears began to roll down her cheeks, and Ethan dimly considered that it was almost unfair how prettily flushed her face was, compared to his doubtlessly blotchy, red eyed one. "I'm sorry about your house and your shop, and your parents... I'm sorry I was such a fucking bitch back there... I just... Oh god, I'm really, really sorry about everything!" She sobbed.

Ethan found himself in the odd position of immediately feeling guilty. Instantly all his rage and pain were forgotten as he scrambled for a way to make things right.

"Hey, no, it's okay. It's alright. I, uh... I don't mind." He stammered.

She gave a small, tinkling laugh, between gasping breaths. "You don't mind? I've fucked up your life!" She exclaimed.

"No, I mean... Kind of. But it's not your fault, and I mean... I'm sorry?"

She gave another, louder laugh. "You're sorry? Wow, Jesus, why on earth are you sorry?"

Ethan paused, trying to puzzle out an answer, brow furrowed.

"Uh, I'm sorry... that you're sorry?" He ventured.

The girl laughed again, and suddenly, like sun peeking out from behind clouds, something new, something genuine slipped out. Her laugh started musically, but a surprising, brash note snuck in, and then a small snort. It was jarring, but oddly refreshing. Ethan found himself smiling without exactly knowing why.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to laugh at you." She began, misinterpreting Ethan's curious stare, "It's just... You really don't like crying people, do you?" 

Ethan returned with a laugh of his own. "No, they kind of freak me out." 

The girl smiled, and sniffling, began to swipe away her tears. "Sorry. I just... I really am sorry. About everything."

"Noted," Ethan replied with a smile.

She sighed, and the two of them regarded each other for a suddenly painfully awkward minute. Ethan cast about for what one said to a half-dead dream Princess. A question leapt into his head and he couldn't stop himself from asking it.

"Do you eat?" He blurted.

"What?" The girl looked up at him, smiling bemusedly.

"I mean, like... If you don't eat, in the real world, will you die? I should have asked the fairy god-lady or whatever but-"

"Oh. Oh no. I don't. I don't need water or anything. It's like... Magic stasis? I should be fine." 

"Oh, okay, thank god. That... that would have been weird."

They both paused for a moment, no doubt musing over the undignified scenario of trying to feed a passed-out stranger. Ethan tried to push it out of his mind. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"Well anyhow, uh, your body is good - I mean it's okay! It's fine. It's uh, on my couch," He supplied.

"Oh, yeah, thanks. That's nice," The girl replied hurriedly, "One of... one of these?" She queried, pointing around the room.

"What? Oh! Yeah... uh, that one." Ethan answered, gesturing.

"Huh." The girl crossed over to the couch in question. Stiffly, she sat, bounced on it a few times. "Seems comfy enough. Thanks," She added with a smile.

"Yeah, no problem," Ethan smiled back nervously. Hesitant, but feeling gawky standing over her, he crossed to the couch and sat as well, taking care to seat himself on the far opposite side. "I mean. It's not exactly... uh... fit for a Princess or anything," He muttered.

The girl gave a loud snort of derision, another strange, fascinating slip of her veneer. "I would sleep on the lumpiest couches on earth if I could stop being a fucking Princess."

Ethan smiled at her nervously. "What, seriously?"

The girl nodded, her shoulders slumped. "Yeah, seriously."

"But I mean... I thought being a Princess was every girl's dream?"

The girl gave a small, bitter laugh. "Yeah, I guess. I mean, for some girls it must be. I've seen ones that seem happy enough. I mean, money, fame, a handsome husband... It sounds pretty great. Maybe I'm weird for thinking it's not, but... Jesus, it's not." 

"What do you mean?" 

"What do I mean!? I mean it's... It's... It's a trap, you know? It's a perversion, it's a violation, it's... It's a fucking nightmare."

"A violation?" Ethan gulped.

The girl nodded vigorously. "Yeah, you have no idea. I mean... Where do I start?" She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap, and seemed to be struck with inspiration. "Okay," She said, holding them up, "First of all. This isn't me."

"Oooo...kay?" 

"This, all this," She pressed, circling her finger around her face, "This isn't what I look like. I was made to look like this."

"How do you mean... you used to look different?"

The girl nodded. "My mom tells me that when I was born, I looked like her. I had freckles, and a bigger mouth, and a different nose... But then the fucking godpeople came." She sighed.

"The fairy ones?"

"Yeah, those ones. So... Okay, you know how Princesses used to be a monarchy thing?" She enquired.

"Uh, yeah, vaguely," Ethan nodded.

"Well now it's just a random thing. Maybe because of the march of democracy or something, I don't know. All I do know, is that one day, a few months after you're born, fairy godparents just zap themselves into your fucking nursery and decide you're a Prince or a Princess. There's nothing your parents can do, nothing anybody can do, they just decide it, and that's that."

"So... just for giggles? Why do they pick who they pick?" 

"I don't know. I think they have some reasoning behind it... I mean, they're like magical lawyers, you're right, they've got all these rules and regulations, they've got to have a reason, but... I don't know. Anyhow. So they decide you're a Princess and then you get blessed."

"Blessed?"

"Uh huh. You get some kind of special gift. Three of them usually. So Princes get stuff like Courage, or Strength, or Dashing, or something like that. With Princesses though, it's junk like Grace, or Poise, or Good Posture."

"That last one sounds annoying," Ethan observed.

"I know, right? At least I didn't get saddled with that one," She laughed, gesturing at her slumped frame, "And of course they're never anything useful. I could be happy with, like, Good at Math, or Tells Good Jokes or... I dunno... Remembers Birthdays Really Well."

"Talented Beekeeper," Ethan offered. 

Another laugh, another slipped note. Ethan smiled.

"Yeah, why not? Anything like that. But no. Useless bullshit. And then with Princesses, one of the gifts is always Beauty." She sighed bitterly.

"Seems kinda... subjective," Ethan muttered. 

"Yeah, well not to the Godparents, apparently. When a girl is gifted with Beauty, she doesn't just become a prettier version of herself, or just stays the same and everyone thinks she's beautiful... She actually physically changes. I changed. I used to look different. I used to look like my mom. Now... Now I don't know how I really look anymore. I just look like what the Godparents think is beautiful. Like... like the most baseline kind of beauty they could come up with."

"Wait... So your face-" 

"Not my face. Not my original one at least."

"And your eyes?" 

"Not blue. Mom thinks they might have been Hazel... I don't know." She shrugged defeatedly.

"Oh man, that's a relief!" Ethan blurted.

The girl looked at him, startled. "A relief?"

"Well, yeah, I mean..." Ethan stammered, "I just... There was something odd about you, and it was kinda freaking me out - Not that you're freaky, it's just... You looked... Uh, a little... off?"

She stared at Ethan, face unreadable. "You don't like the way I look?" She asked flatly.

"Yes! I mean no - well wait not no, but..." Ethan could almost hear the sound of a shovel pitching dirt out of his grave.

"It's okay, seriously, do you?"

Ethan gave a small, high laugh. "Uh... Well, I mean yeah, you look pretty... and everything... but it's kind of... Uh... boring? Oh wow, that came out wrong. Just not... Interesting. Wow, still wrong!" 

"No no, it's okay!" She replied. Ethan was flabbergasted to find her smiling.

"I-I like your hair though. The cut I mean," He offered.

"Oh," Her smile grew, "Thanks. I cut it myself. Every day."

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. Turns out when they make you beautiful, they want you to stay beautiful, according to their standards. So, wounds don't scar, piercings fuse up, tattoo ink beads up and falls off. And your hair just grows and grows and fucking grows."

"Holy cow, that's weird," Ethan breathed. 

"Right!?" She exclaimed. "I once tried to put on purple lipstick and it melted in the tube! Doesn't do that with pink or light red. Such bullshit."

"So, you cut your hair and wear uh, Un-Princessey clothes because..."

"Because it's the only way I can be myself," She murmured quietly.

Ethan was silent for a moment. He looked at the beautiful face that wasn't hers and saw a sorrow beneath it that she seemed to own all too much.

"Jeez, that sounds... Bogus," He offered lamely.

She laughed. "Understatement of the year, but yeah. But I mean, that's not really the worst of it. Not by a longshot."

"Oh?" Ethan ventured.

"It's not enough to take your identity, they fucking own your life. From the moment you're Princessified, you belong to them. You don't get to choose where you live, where you go to school, what you want to do with your life. No, you're as good as a slave from that point on."

"Seriously?"

The girl nodded. "On your fourteenth birthday, right? The godparents show up, and give you a Curse. Something to begin your trials. Maybe you bite a bad apple, maybe you run into a vindictive goblin, maybe you drop candle wax on a bear..."

"What?"

"Don't ask. Anyhow, they give you this curse to hang over your head for the rest of your life. Once it gets activated, you're locked in. The contest for your hand starts, and congratulations, you've lost any control you had over your life. You're just fucking Prince bait from then on."

"Okay, wait, but... Why? I've been thinking this since you passed out on my floor... Why? Why bother, why all the trouble and magic and rules? Why marry off Princesses? What's the point?"

"I don't know. It seems insane, right? All this pageantry. They practically devote themselves to forcing this weird routine... Again, I mean... there's gotta be a reason. If you ask them they'll tell you it's all about True Love."

"Trademark," Ethan added absently.

"Oh my god, you got that too!?" The girl exclaimed. "It's like they own the patent on Tru Wuv or something. So fucking annoying. It's always True Love this, and True Love that. Which is bullshit. I mean, my parents met when they were in college. They both liked bad horror movies and jazz music. They traveled the world together on like, five bucks and a prayer. Dad proposed with a twist tie ring. That... That seems like True Love to me. I don't get any of that. I can't even date!"

"At all?" Ethan asked, very conscious of trying to sound casual.

"Nope. Do you know what happens if you try to kiss a Princess if you aren't a Prince?"

"No. I get the feeling it's ominous though." 

"You get turned into a frog. No fucking kidding. An actual frog. One of my childhood friends found that out the hard way, got an inch away from my lips and suddenly he's hopping. I cried for like, six days before the godparents showed up and changed him back." She'd begun to talk very fast, her face flushed. Ethan began to get the sensation that she'd forgotten she was even talking to anyone else. "If anyone tried to cop a feel, my clothes go all rigid. Like steel. No matter what I wear. They refuse to come off. For like, an hour. You know how hard that makes doctor's visits? Even though Princesses never really get sick... And even when I'm naked? Anyone who comes within eyeshot is left blind and paralyzed, and it doesn't wear off until I put clothes on!"

Ethan gulped, his face burning. "Uhhhh...."

"Because GOD FORBID anyone take my chastity! No! Gotta save that for our Princes! Gotta be pure, and demure, and fucking CHASTE. I'm twenty two years old dude, and I still haven't lost my...!"

She trailed off. Ethan heard her breath go out in a little dwindling squeak. He felt her eyes on the side of his head, but he stared devoutly at the floorboards.

They sat. They fidgeted. Ethan coughed twice.

Eventually, Ethan couldn't resist sneaking a look at her face. She looked embarrassed, yes. But also a little... Worn down. A little defeated. And more than a little scared.

"Hey," Ethan said quietly, breaking the silence, "I'm, uh... Sorry. About this. That all sounds really, really awful."

She looked up, a small smile tracing her face.

"I'm sorry about your hair," He continued, "And your life, and, uh, you know... your chastity." He finished with a slight break of his voice.

She burst into giggles, and Ethan was strangely delighted to hear her little snort crop up again. He found himself grinning.

"Thanks." She replied once she'd caught her breath. "And I'm sorry too. About all the stupid shit I said, and your shop, and all the trouble I've caused," She paused, looked towards the door, "And, um... Sorry about your parents."

Ethan's smile disappeared. "Why are you sorry about that? You didn't even know them."

"Yeah, but I mean... They're gone, right?" She asked quietly.

Ethan closed his eyes. Nodded.

"And that sucks, right?"

He nodded again.

"So... I'm sorry. And I'm really sorry I stopped you from seeing them," She added, her voice heavy with sincerity.

Ethan gave her a weak smile. "Don't worry about it. It's just a dream, right?"

Another moment's silence. This time broken by the girl.

"Hey. What's your name?"

Ethan looked up, smiled wryly. "Oh. I'm Ethan. Ethan Green."

The girl smirked, a strangely incongruent expression on a Princess's face. 

"Green? You own a Grocer's and your name is-?"

"Yeah yeah, hilarious right? Trust me, you haven't said anything my friend hasn't already. Repeatedly," Ethan replied with a sigh.

"Sorry," She giggled, "Uh. Well, my name's Penny."

"Penny," Ethan repeated, trying it out, "Penny what?"

She blushed. "Uh, Pierce," She mumbled.

Ethan laughed. "So wait, you're-?"

"Princess Penny Pierce." She groaned.

"Oh wow." Ethan chuckled, "And you thought my name was funny?"

"Would you believe I knew a girl whose last name was Prince? The godpeople referred to her as Princess Prince. Confused the hell out of everyone."

Both she and Ethan began to laugh, and kept laughing for longer than was truly warranted for such a small comment. They'd start to calm down, and then glance at each other and be set off all over again. On some level, Ethan understood that this was because they'd both reached a point in their stress and strangeness where they could either laugh, or cry. Laughter just seemed like the more enjoyable option.

As Ethan's giggles subsided, he looked at Penny, and suddenly saw in her... a person.

He'd seen a Pretty Girl at first, and then a Princess, and then a Pain in the Ass, but now, she was just a Person, and like that, all his awkwardness dissolved. 

"Well," He smiled, extending a hand, "It's nice to meet you, Penny Pierce," He said, purposely omitting the Princess part.

She grinned back, and Ethan thought there was something fantastically crooked about it this time. "Yeah, nice to meet you too, Ethan Green," She replied sincerely.

She stretched out her hand to meet his. He felt her fingertips brush his palm.

And then everything was tangled blankets and screaming alarms.

[hanzajesthanza]

one thing about cahir is that he does not run away from shit. even when he really really should. he is brave and noble to the point of idiocy. isengrim was like ok i am taking you back to nilfgaard to probably be executed for treason and cahir was like “ok” and didn’t even fight back and let them tie him up and put him in a box because he knew he fucked up again and that was the consequence. i’m not calling him a bootlicker because he literally rebels against mentioned evil empire and fights them on the battlefield, but there is something funny about him entirely accepting evil and unfair authority even when it means his demise. he loses the deal he’s made with emhyr like “ok. you can break me on the wheel now. because i failed.” it wouldn’t be honorable to chicken out of his fate, so he won’t run. because he doesn’t want to. it’s all about honor with this guy. i mean regis barely asks milva who is this man, and cahir interjects to straight up tells regis his entire full name. even though that’s sensitive information and he is literally on the imperial wanted list at the moment. like no one fucking asked dude. cahir is literally the kind of guy to respond to a lukewarm online comment with his full name and address (which btw is in vicovaro). because he wears his honor and his name like a badge. he could have stfu as geralt accused and berated him, but instead he defends his honor by fistfighting a witcher (an injured and disabled witcher, but still a witcher who he has witnessed fight and kill coldly and calmly with superhuman agility and speed). and finally, we all know how he met bonhart. like no fuck you it’s my destiny to die by your blade. cahir was just comfortable with speedrunning death. i love how fascinating he is as this deconstruction of chivalry and knightly masculinity.

because sapkowski also tangles with this idea of “the knight” in the hussite trilogy and he also talks about it in historia i fantastyka and świat króla artura (a little bit) about how historical knights were essentially bandits sanctioned by law, and the romance and chivalry was a literary invention, and cahir gets to do both, because he’s just combining these elements of the modern, real world and fairytale. but unlike everyone else, who goes from fairytale to real—although cahir is set up as the black knight and this Evil Guy Hunting Innocent Princess, which is very fairytale—cahir goes from real to fairytale, because the invasion of cintra is so very real, and cahir’s journey is to leave behind this reality of violent knighthood, to become a kind of virtuous literary knight instead.

because i love how his persistance and determination in his pursuit of ciri, which is initially set up as evil and villainous, becomes part of his honor. because it’s his persistance to follow her down as he was tasked with as the black knight, which transforms into the noble pursuit of her as in a rescue as a truely knightly endeavor. which is just as powerful and insane as the darksided version of it. geralt tells him to fuck off multiple times and he even gets jumped and he still pursues geralt’s company because the only thing that matters is to find ciri. and i feel like he had even more persistence when seeking her for good, rather than when he was working for evil. maybe because this time it was personal and not a punchclock motivation. and that noble calling to find ciri held out even when geralt’s fatherly devotion lost hope. in tower of the swallow, he wouldn’t believe in her death even when he sensed it as much as geralt did. because that’s the same overconfident youth we saw in blood of elves, smirking when emhyr discussed this second chance with him. like no i don’t care what anyone says, even my own premonitions or the emperor i serve. we are gonna find this fucking girl—

like just really a masterclass in how to take a character from villain to hero, keeping his same motivations and obsessions and self-image, and at the same time make it relevant thematically with the whole story, setting, and historical and literary connections that have already been established.

[holylulusworld]

Rise from the ashes (1) - Into the woods

Summary: You're abandoned, but the woods offer more than trees.

Pairing: Alpha(dark king) Ari Levinson x Omega!Reader

Warnings: angst, betrayal, a/b/o, scenting, protective Ari, character's death (unnamed alpha), werewolf au, transformation

A/N: In my story, they live in a strict a/b/o verse. If an omega is rejected, she’ll be banned from the pack and left to die.

The wind gently tugs at the white, silky dress you’re wearing for today’s ceremony. You are the chosen one this time. The last unbonded omega to be chosen by a mate.

You’re giddy and excited, but a little scared too. What if you do not like the alpha choosing you? What if he regrets his claim one day?

“Follow me,” the head alpha says, guiding you toward the clearing of bloom. The place where bonds are forged for eternity. A holy place, a sacred one. No one would dare to shed blood here in war.

You obediently follow the alpha, your leader, and the most trusted person in your pack. His words are the law. No one disagrees with him.

“You know the procedure, right? Your parents taught you well, or so I heard,” the leader talks more to himself than you. This is routine to him. A new omega every month. Faceless women, guided toward their fate.

“Yes, Alpha Prime,” you murmur, afraid to anger him if you speak louder. Some people told you that your voice is unpleasant, and that’s the last thing you want to reveal today.

“I like the dress you chose and that you’re not wearing too much make-up or perfume. The alphas will be pleased scenting your natural scent.” Your heart flutters at his praise. Maybe the ceremony of fate is nothing you have to fear after all.

All eyes are on you standing in the middle of the sacred flower field. Your heart beats out of your chest as the unmated alphas approach you.

“You all know the rules. You can scent but not touch her, alphas. Be respectful, or the moon goddess will punish you for breaking the rules.” Alpha Prime’s voice booms through the night. “We shall begin now!”

You hold your breath as the first alpha moves closer, stopping only inches from you. He sniffs in your direction, huffing before he steps away. No match, but you still hold your hopes high. There are more than fifteen alphas. One of them will choose you. You’re sure about it.

A gentle breeze touches your skin, tugging at your dress as more alphas step toward you. They line up, scenting you, looking you up and down, even circling you before every single one leaves without laying claim on you.

Your eyes water as only a few alphas are left. There must be something wrong with your scent, or you. How can every single one reject you?

You wring your hands as two alphas step closer. They sniff at you, waiting for a moment before shaking their heads in unison.

With each rejection, your heart sinks further, but you refuse to let despair consume you.

The last alpha steps forward. He takes his time, circling you slowly, his nostrils flaring as he takes in your scent. Hope flickers within you, but it dies as quickly as it bloomed when he too shakes his head and steps back.

Cold fear grips your heart. You know what this means. If no one chooses you as their mate, you cannot stay in the pack for longer.

“The alphas have spoken,” the leader says. There’s something in his eyes you haven’t seen before. You expected a hint of sadness or regret for what he’s about to do, but all you see is relief.

The strongest guards of the pack step forward; they grab you to wrap a rope around your wrists. It’s unnecessary. How could you fight a whole pack? Your fate has been decided. You’re going to do the walk and die in the dark woods no one dares to enter.

“Rules must be followed. Y/N, you will be permanently banned from our pack. You’re not allowed to come back. If you dare to step onto our territory, you’re going to die through my hands,” Alpha Prime declares, still no regret in his eyes.

The guards drag you away. You don’t fight them. Head hanging low, you try to not cry. You want to keep the rest of your dignity.

Alpha Prime is right. Rules must be followed.

The guards are silent while Alpha Prime and his brother whisper. You try to catch their conversation and frown as they talk about this year’s sacrifice. Your name falls from their lips, and you finally lift your head.

“The forest god will be all too happy with her. Her scent is pleasant,” Alpha Prime whispers. “It was a struggle for all the alphas to not choose her.”

Your heart drops. Deception. All the rules and ceremonies are an illusion. You’re a sacrifice to some god? How can this be? Does anyone else know about this?

The guards stop right at the border, parting your territory from the pack of the dark woods’ territory. They live further in the woods, but you won’t make it to their territory.

Whatever is lurking in the woods will get you first.

“Be honored.” Alpha Prime whispers in your ear. “We choose only the special ones to become the sacrifice. Every single alpha wanted to claim you, Y/N.”

His words mean nothing to you. The rules, the hierarchy, mating, alphas—nothing makes sense anymore. The betrayal cuts deep as they push you over the border. You stop to look over your shoulder, but the guards aim their guns at you.

“Go, make us proud,” Alpha Prime says. He lifts his hands to the moon, howling loudly as you set into motion.

You run faster than ever before. Maybe you can make it to the dark forest’s pack. Maybe they will take you in. Maybe you won’t die tonight.

Your lungs are burning. You’ve got blisters on the soles of your feet, but still try to keep on pushing forward. “Where to?” You ask yourself while hiding behind a large tree.

It’s pitch black, and you don’t know where you are going. You lost orientation and track of time shortly after you started to run.

“I can’t… I just can’t,” you sniffle and sink to your knees, hugging yourself. “It’s impossible to escape fate.”

“Fate?” A deep voice coming out of nowhere says. It sounds as if your mind is trying to mock you as it continues. “Your fine people send random girls to my woods once a year. This is not fate; this is illegal waste disposal.”

“We are not waste!” You rise to your feet again to yell into the darkness. “We didn’t know anything about this sacrifice shit. They lied to us,” you sniffle. “They lied…”

“Fate. Ceremonies. Nonsense!” The voice booms, making even the ground shake. Whatever or whoever is trying to make fun of you must be a very powerful being.

“Moon goddess?” You immediately sink to your knees and lower your head. “Forgive me my impertinence.”

“Get back up,” the voice chastises. “We don’t have time for this. In these woods, rogues have been sneaking around my territory for ages. You don’t want to encounter them.”

“Rogues?” You shriek as someone grabs your arms to force you back on your feet. He steps away to get a better look at you.

The dim moonlight offers a good view of the man.

You gasp as you face a tall alpha. His blue, piercing eyes are framed by a strong jawline and a neatly trimmed beard that accentuates his rugged good looks.

The way he stands, with his arms crossed and his expression brooding, tells you he’s a man used to being in control.

The dark blue shirt he wears clings to his broad shoulders and muscular frame, hinting at the strength that lies beneath.

“Who are you? You’re not the moon goddess…”

“Oh, you got that already?” He smirks as you look at him with angry eyes. “The moon goddess does not wander among mere humans. Not in these woods anyways.”

He is silent for a moment, dipping his head as he listens to the noises in the woods.

“What are you doing?” You whisper, afraid there’s more in these woods than the cocky alpha.

“We have to go.” He grabs your bound wrists and drags you with him, not giving you the chance to protest.

The alpha is fast. Faster than you as he runs through the woods, forcing you to keep up with him. “Omega, don’t give up. We don’t want to get eaten by the rogues.”

“Eaten?” You pant heavily when he finally stops in his tracks.

He sniffs left and right, eyes turning red as he scents some other alpha. Gritting his teeth, he growls low in his throat. He throws his head back, howling, making the ground shake once again.

“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave this one to me. If not, you can try to fight the dark king.”

“Dark king,” you whisper under your breath. Many stories about the dark king have been told to you and the others in your pack over the years. The elders called him a beast with red eyes and poisonous claws. A werewolf from the dark ages.

He dips his head, listening closely as you hear footsteps coming in your direction.

“They never learn,” he sighs deeply before turning his head toward you. “Step back, hide behind the tree, and don’t come out before I’m back to myself.”

You nod and run toward the tree, hiding behind it. You’re shaking in fear as you dig your fingertips into the bark of the tree.

“I guess this means you want to fight,” he laughs and cracks his neck loudly. The alpha rolls his shoulders and stretches his back.

While he takes off his shoes, pants, and shirt, the footsteps come even closer.

You shiver and press your body closer to the tree.

“Last warning,” he says. “I’ll let you live if you go now.”

You don’t know if he tries to trick the men or if he has lost his mind. He stands naked in front of three tall alphas, and all he does is howl.

“He’s going to end up dead,” you murmur to yourself. You can’t shift without the power of the moon and will end up dead too if you try to help him.

A deep, guttural growl rumbles in his chest. His eyes flash red again as his features begin to morph.

His jaw elongates into a muzzle, making you gasp. How can he shift without a full moon?

His fingers lengthen and sharpen into deadly claws as you watch the men stop in their tracks. They look as confused as you are.

As his transformation continues, thick, coarse fur spreads all over his body. His massive, muscular frame casts a shadow that sends shivers down your spine.

“He transformed without the moon!” The men gasp and whine while you’re too shocked to even blink as the largest wolf you have ever seen moves toward the rogues.

He jumps at them, killing their leader with one bite to their neck.

“These are my woods. No one hurts animals or people seeking shelter here. Leave and never come back.”

The wolf growls, making the other men run for their lives. He doesn’t follow them, though.

“How—” You step toward the wolf to get a closer look. Your hand reaches out to touch his fur, and he lets you. “Why can you shift without the full moon?”

The wolf turns around to sit in front of you. He’s an impressive sight. At least seven feet tall, the wolf looks down at your small, trembling form.

“The moon goddess blessed me,” he purrs before nuzzling the hand you’re still holding up. The huge wolf closes his eyes, enjoying your soft caresses. “We need to go. More of them will come.”

You watched him shift back, cheeks heating up as he put his clothes back on. He was, in any form, impressive and beautiful.

“You killed one, but not the others,” you whisper as he looks you all over for any sign of injuries. “Why?”

“He was the leader and killed one of the omegas they sent here last year. I came too late…” He shakes his head. “I must protect the innocent. I failed her. I won’t fail again.”

“Why did you let the others get away then?”

“They didn’t do anything,” he replies. “I only kill if it’s necessary. He was a monster; the others weren’t."

“I don’t even know your name,” you hold out your other hand. “My name is Y/N.”

“I know,” he says, smiling softly. “The moon goddess talked to me in my sleep. She sent you to me. I’m Ari, your alpha, your true mate. And you are going to become my queen…”

[green-static]

Writing Sam and Max’s dialogue, some tips!

Yeah, so I just wanted to get on here and try to talk about how I write Sam and Max. No one asked me to I just kind of felt like sharing.

So the biggest thing that I noticed when reading fanfiction is that a lot of people tend to make Sam more mellow. Essentially they try to make him seem sane compared to Max which yes you can do, but you need to make sure that you keep Sam not seeming mentally stable all the time.

I mean, he literally killed a fast food employee because they didn’t make his food right. Sure he let Max do the torturing to death thing, but he did pull his gun out on him. And he told Max to do it. He also murdered like a hundred people at one time and only said “man I kind of feel bad about this” did we forget that he and Max kept a man locked in their closet until he died? What I’m trying to get at is Sam is not the sane member of the freelance police. He just has some semblance of self-control is well spoken and relatively soft mannered.

Examples of Sam being generally violent

For example, let’s say they’re going to commit murder. Sam might say, “I think I’ll shoot this guy to make him stop talking.” But Max might say “ if I rip out your vocal cords and tie your small intestines around your throat will that keep your trap shut?” The point is Max is more unhinged with what he says but Sam still says the same thing just in a way that makes it come off as more normal. (Compared to max anyway.) they are both violent, but Max comes across as more violent due to the way he says it.

You also have when Max says something batshit insane and Sam just adds on to it.

“Sam, what do you think would happen if I threw Harry Moleman into an industrial frier? His face makes me seethe with anger.”

“Just make sure to throw away oil after, I don’t wanna eat anything that had his body anywhere near it”

My biggest piece of advice when it comes to writing them is just don’t be normal. Sam and Max deeply care about each other. They may show aggression towards each other, but most of the times it’s still in an affectionate manner and neither one of them gets seriously hurt. Sam and Max are unconventional characters so your writing needs to be unconventional as well.

When I write them, the first thing that I do is I read the dialogue and I think to myself “would a well adjusted member of society say this?” if the answer is no, then I’m on the right track. 

And make sure that you’re engaging with a canon media and not just fanon media. It can be really easy to have your perception of a character changed based off of the fanfiction or fan works that you’re reading/engaging with. So making sure that you’re regularly going back to the source material is important . 

OK, I guess that’s all for now. If y’all have any specific questions you want asked about how I write them go ahead. I run an ask blog so if you wanna read what I do to see how I write them then yeah you can do that.

Ask blog -> @freelancepolicedotcom

And just to clarify, you don’t have to write them this way. this is just how I write them and I’m just sharing in case any aspiring writers out there need help with these funny guys. If this helped you write anything, please send them to me I love to read fanfiction. 

[chil-aglia]

𝐃𝐨 𝐈 𝐋𝐨𝐨𝐤 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐦? |ROTTMNT| (Male OC)

[The Turtle in Stasis]

Be sure to read the tags on my Ao3 so you guys know what you’re getting yourselves into.

Art above is done by me. PLEASE feel free to make your own art and idk tag me in it or something—

ALSO, I have a Bad Things Happen Bingo card out right now and would really appreciate it, if y'all could go and help me out with it!

Warnings: Mention of blood, mention of war, major canon character “death”, etc

Quick thank you to my awesome beta reader @cimmerian1275

They agreed to be my official beta reader and so far, I’m very pleased and excited to have them on my two-man team (literally just me and them) they have also created the cover art of the book, Caden’s ref sheet and just fanart of this series in general. Very talented and please, go give them a follow, like their work, etc.

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Leonardo Hamato is a turtle of many great talents. A master of wielding his katanas, a well-renowned and respected leader for his team and the Resistance, an expert on strategy with advanced ninja skills. A great big and little brother to his fellow family members. 

He also had an impeccable sense of humour to brighten up any dull moment.

He also had his fair share of burdens to carry. The weight of leading the Resistance in this apocalyptic world, with the Krang roaming about taking over at least 85% of the world, and the humans along with it being assimilated into Krang zombies. The fact that everyone relies on him to lead, to be a beacon of hope for others that the world can be saved. As long as he was around.

To everyone on the outside Leonardo didn’t seem to let those responsibilities get to him. Having one of the best poker faces a mutant like him could have. He was cocky, oftentimes bantering with his enemies to catch them off guard and then striking when they least expect it.

He’s the face man. And one of the best medical experts the Resistance still had. Of course, it didn’t mean he was the only medic out there. But his family always preferred him to oversee and double-check in case one of the human or yokai doctors overlooked something.

Leonardo Hamato is a turtle of many skills.

And all great beings…must succumb eventually.

-----

Ringing white noise was all Leo could hear as he laid prone on the dirt. Blood stained his blue scarf, most of it his. He could feel the red liquid essence pooling slightly from the side of his mouth. His side felt numb but he knew there was something wrong with it, perhaps more of his vital fluids escaping from a wound he couldn't identify through the haze of pain clouding his judgement.

His eyelids felt weak, and he was doing what he could to stay awake as he saw the blurry figures of his brothers hovering around him, all talking—no, shouting, among themselves. Their voices were muffled in Leo’s tympanum, who at this point was barely paying attention.

He knew the war was still raging on around him, briefly seeing the rubble and debris of broken down buildings in the distance. The muffled sounds of gunfire and explosions. The vibrations of heavy footsteps not far from where he lay.

Krang did this to him. Krang Prime to be more specific. But the bastard was gone, perhaps he left Leo to die alone in agony, to die thinking…. he failed. Failed to be the leader that everyone needed him to be. Failed to protect those who clung onto him for hope.

Failed, failed, failed.

He began closing his eyes, succumbing to the exhaustion overwhelming his mind and body. He just needs to sleep. He’ll be fine once he sleeps.

-----

Raph, Donnie and Mikey were shouting amongst themselves, coming up with ideas and plans on what to do. Unaware that Leo had already closed his eyes, no longer paying attention to them.

Mikey however was quick to notice, gasping with eyes blown wide as he stared at Leonardo’s limp and unmoving body. “Leo…?” He uttered under his breath, quickly and gently placing his tridactyl fingers against Leo’s bloody plastron as he listened for a heartbeat.

It was incredibly faint. On the brink of stopping all-together.

Mikey immediately became alarmed, shoulders trembling as he quickly tried to think of anything to save his brother. There wasn't anybody on the battlefield or nearby with the medical knowledge needed to help with something this severe. He could…he could…

He closed his eyes to ponder.

Come on Mikey! Think!

His Ninpo pulsed and surged of its own accord, and his hand that laid upon Leo’s chest began to glow. Mikey didn’t quite understand what he was doing, but it felt right. He could see, even with his eyes closed. He could see a blue light shining in the distance despite the darkness of the void he now found himself in.

Leo’s soul, he figured.

Mikey swam over to the blue ball of energy, clutching it gently but securely in his hands as he looked down at it solemnly. “You’ll be okay. I’m gonna help you out bro.” Mikey soothes, unsure if the ball of light can even hear him or be comforted. He looked around the void before curling in slightly, his transparent body glowing more in an effort to shield Leo.

He was searching for something….searching for a connection. Searching for a secure and safe space to store Leo into.

And… and he found it as he peered deeper into the darkness. It was hard to make out what it was, but Mikey felt it was the best option. The only option.

And so he glimmered brightly in concentration, the blue ball that was Leo flew out of his hands, as though he was being reeled in by an invisible fishing line, heading towards a location that Mikey charted for him with his own mystic powers.

He was going to be okay… he knew it, wherever he was going.

Mikey finally opened his eyes, blinking as his vision was blurry and distorted upon returning to the real world. “Mikey! Come on, we can still save Leo, but we gotta get out of here.” Raph exclaims, shaking his little brother's shoulder as the mutant box turtle recoiled out of surprise and stood up.

Donnie was now carrying Leo on his back. Mikey didn’t even see him move. Then again, he was preoccupied with something else. ”I can make a portal to the base.” Mikey assured, stretching out his arms as Donnie nods quickly, “Well come on! Leo’s not getting any lighter here.” He sarcastically quips, the stress eating away at Mikey as he inhales a deep breath before maneuvering his hands out in front of him.

He sweats from the exertion, but an orange portal begins to open, spreading widely enough for everyone to fit and whipping up loose pebbles and dust around their feet. Donnie was first to jump in with Leo, Raph following after and lastly Mikey jumping in, the portal closing behind them once they returned to the safety of the base.

They had arrived in one of Donnie’s labs, where the softshell pants from either exhaustion or worry, Mikey doesn't know, and immediately began taking Leo towards one of their private medbays. Leo hadn’t woken up or twitched a muscle during the whole ordeal.

”You're going to be okay Leo… just gotta patch you up again and—“ Donnie was interrupted when he almost bumped into someone, a familiar chest. Noticing who it was he was almost relieved to see them.

”Draxum. Help! Leo…h-he got hurt, badly!” Raph exclaimed, unable to hide the panic in his voice as he pleaded with the yokai who paused like he'd recently seen a ghost, and looked as though he ran here if his loud breathing and ruffled fur was anything to judge by.

Draxum stared silently at Leo. Taking in his appearance. He looked rough, still bleeding out onto the floor, his blood still visible on Mikey’s hands and Donnie’s clothes who was no doubt going to freak out about it more later.

”Come, we must stop the bleeding first.” He took charge, shaking his head to snap out of the daze he was in as he led the brothers to the med room. Donnie was quick to settle Leo’s large body onto the bed, immediately assisting Draxum as they worked together to assess and patch his wounds, clean up Leo, strip off the blue and bloodied scarf as well as the rest of his gear and wrap him in fresh bandages.

Mikey was ushered out by Raph who didn’t want him seeing the state their brother was in right now for any longer than he had to. For Raph, it was like seeing the culmination of all his failures take a physical and heartbreakingly real form, he failed to protect his brother. He remembered making a vow to Splinter years ago to always be there and protect his family from harm. And yet here Leo was, unconscious, limp, bruised and bloody all over. Raph felt like curling over into a corner and just crying. But he had to remain strong for his brothers, at least for Mikey.

Mikey on the other hand could tell what Raph was thinking when he looked up into his biggest brother's face, seeing the effort he put into holding back tears on his tight expression. He didn’t blame him one bit. Mikey himself felt similar given the circumstances.

He knew that he took Leo’s soul someplace safe before he could succumb to his injuries…but was it truly safe? Did he screw up? Did he send his older brother on a quicker route to death's door? For all he knew, that's exactly what he did.

Mikey’s lip quivered as he turned to Raph, who avoided eye contact, apparently finding the ground to be more interesting. Mikey knew Raph was just overthinking everything, he could tell because Raph’s ‘worried stink’ was particularly strong.

“Raph…” Mikey murmured, scooting close enough to softly touch his brother's arm in silent support. The snapper mutant glanced down at his youngest brother.

“He’s going to be…” Mikey halted in his sentence. As he thought about it once more. He refused to believe that Leo would die, that he could already be dead. He’s going to be okay, he WILL be okay, he needed to convince himself if he was going to help his brother.

He cleared his throat and continued in a stronger tone “Leo is going to be okay…”

Raph blinked down at him, a tense moment went by and he gave an appreciative nod, Mikey let his brother scoop him up and hold him tight as they waited.

Leonardo didn’t move or twitch a muscle as Donnie and Draxum worked in tandem together to treat his brother. And the inner turmoil was overwhelming, his brother has been seriously injured before, but these new symptoms? The utter lack of response? Leo seemed to be completely catatonic. And they don’t have any painkillers or drugs strong enough to knock out a fully grown mutant scientifically engineered to be resilient and built for war like this, so it couldn’t be those. If only Leo wasn’t the one injured, he’d surely have an inkling of what's wrong.

“He hasn’t woken up once since we brought him back, and with the amount of pain he has to be in—“ He began to run off for the needed equipment so that he could gather data and figure out what’s wrong so he can fix it, but paused when Draxum spoke up sternly.

”No. He won’t need any of that, and I have a much better place for him. Wheel him along and follow me.”

“Draxum? What do you mean?”

Draxum leaves the room, gesturing for Raph and Mikey who had been anxiously waiting outside to come with him. Donnie soon followed from behind, wheeling Leo’s medical bed out of the room with a flat expression.

The brothers share a perplexed look between each other, unsure where Draxum was taking them. The yokai himself remained quiet as he led them to his lab, further on the other side of the base that they currently resided in. Away from the prying eyes of humans and yokai alike.

Upon entering the lab, Draxum didn’t stop there. No, he ventured further over to a wall where all he did was place his hand against a brick, a hidden hand print recognition scanner appearing as it scans Draxum palm, beeping with a green light before the wall actually splits open to reveal an elevator.

”What is this? I don’t recall this being here.” Donnie voiced out, eyes narrowing in suspicion at the idea of Draxum keeping secrets from them.

“That’s because I kept it hidden. I made a hidden underground lab for myself.” Draxum only stated, striding into the large elevator that looked just big enough to fit the bed, gesturing for the others to enter as well.

Donnie wheels Leo inside, flabbergasted by his admission while Draxum waits for everyone to enter, pressing a button to close the doors as the box they were in starts descending.

”You have a hidden lab?! Since when?! How come I didn’t know about this?” Donnie interrogated, the ding of the elevator sounding off as the automated doors opened to reveal Draxum’s hidden lab.

It was big, cluttered with machinery, and the shelves were stacked with tattered and ancient-looking books. And multiple jars of experimental medicines and colourful liquids inside that had somehow survived the alien invasion were littered around the space.

Glass tanks were lined up ahead, and the brothers audibly gasped and awed at their surroundings. How was Draxum able to keep this hidden for so long without anyone, especially Donnie, finding out about it?

“Okay… we seriously need to have a talk about all of this, but what’s important right now is why did you want us to bring Leo down here? What could you have here that can help him?” Donnie tilted his head with a questioning gaze, already poking and prodding at a few of Draxum’s projects littered around his secret lab with a critical eye. Draxum showed them when he commanded Raph to pick Leo up and place him inside the first large and empty tank that he opened the glass door of, who gingerly and carefully carried his limp brother to where Draxum had gestured. Raph hesitated when he reached the glass door.

”Place him inside. We need to preserve him.”

”I’m sorry, preserve him?! He’s not dead or in some kind of coma.” Donnie hissed out, but Draxum just furrowed his brow and quietly groaned, rubbing at his temple with a clawed hand.

“Just do as I say, we don’t have the luxury of time to waste”

The three brothers share a conflicted look, but Raph eventually moves Leo inside when he meets Mikey’s trusting gaze, placing Leo down and stepping out as Draxum closes and seals the tank, turning to face a button on the side of the giant tube and pressing it. They all trust Draxum, to certain degrees.

Green liquid quickly fills the tank, Leo’s limp body rises up and floats comfortably in the unknown substance as it fills up completely. The brothers watch with a mix of emotions warring on their faces, from fear, to horror to disgust and morbid curiosity. Seeing Leo float motionless in this tube like a specimen was… strange, unsettling.

”So, you just had this laying around here for who knows how long now?” Donnie narrowed his eyes towards Draxum, who looked away and hummed in response.

“I needed more space for my…work.” He supplied eventually, glancing back at them as Raph steps forward, just as equally confused and baffled as the rest of his remaining brothers.

”What work, Drax?”

”It's…complicated.”

”Well explain the complexity of whatever it is you’ve been doing down here!”

An argument began to grow between the three with Mikey observing them from the outside, panic took control of him for a moment as he feared a potential fight could break out, given the high emotions everyone was experiencing right now.

Mikey turns his attention back to Leo’s floating body, mouth feeling dry and chest tight. He had to look away before the tears could find more incentive to fall. When he first saw Leo laying on the ground in the battlefield, it was hard not to stare. Leo had always been smiling, grinning or making jokes even in the face of danger.

But this time…

Mikey shook his head, taking his mind off it all as he decided to wander around the newly discovered underground lab that Draxum hid from them for who knows how long. Mikey wasn’t all too worried as to why Draxum kept this from them. It wasn’t like he was a villain anymore.

He softly gawked at the experimental medicine that was placed on the nearby table and shelves. Whatever was Draxum doing in here? Hiding medicine didn’t seem like it was such a big deal, especially if it was going to help the Resistance.

A sudden chill ran up Mikey’s shell, making the turtle uncontrollably shiver as he looked behind him, his eyes concentrated on the dark side of the room that didn’t seem to have any lights illuminated over there. An invisible string was tugging on Mikey to venture into the dark corner and investigate, and he did. Taking one step at a time as the abnormal feeling grew stronger and pulled him onwards.

What was it? What else did Draxum keep secret?

Mikey squinted his eyes at the shadows, noticing the outline of another tube-like tank, he placed his hand on the glass, the chilly sensation of its surface made him shiver again as he looked around for some kind of way to illuminate it. He noticed his hand was still bloody but dry from touching Leo earlier, but that didn't bother him at the moment. He crouched down slightly, finding what appeared to be a switch of sorts, flicking it up as he heard the whirring of what he guessed to be a water filter starting up.

He steps back out of surprise when the tube actually lights up, showing off what was inside… or more like who.

Mikey let out a startled yelp, stumbling backwards and landing on the floor as his brothers and Draxum rushed over to see what happened. “Mikey? What’s wrong?!” Raph interrogated, checking over his little brother who was frozen staring ahead with wide open eyes.

Donnie and Raph didn’t notice the occupied tank that was now visible to them. More focused on the wellbeing of Mikey who looked a whole new shade of green paler. He raised his finger on a shaking arm and pointed forward.

”….Leo?”

Mikey saw Draxum go stiff in his peripheral vision, who was looking ahead and imperceptibly sighed, placing a hand over his face. Furthermore looking ashamed as Raph and Donnie finally followed to where their brother was pointing, and recoiling violently at the sight they were met with.

Inside the green and bubbling liquid of the tube was a mutant turtle. Much younger than they were, somewhere in their teens if Mikey had to guess. The turtle looked like an exact replica of Leo, especially when Leo was younger.

This turtle, while resembling Leo, had only slight differences noticeable. The most notable one was that this turtle had extra stripes racing up their shoulders and stopping just a little bit under their chin, similar ones were visible on the outside of their thighs.

This turtle remained asleep, eyes closed as it floated peacefully in the tank. Raph blinked, stupefied, and turned to Draxum with wide eyes before narrowing them in anger. “Please explain what the hell we’re looking at.” He demanded, as Draxum exhales a breath he must have been holding and strolls over to the tank, his hooves clicking on the ground in the silent lab and eyes trained on the turtle in stasis.

”I created him 17 years ago. With the very real possibility that one of you four may perish. In this war, I want to take any chance that would be beneficial to us all, so he’s a backup that I created for such a scenario”.

Donnie gaped, pointing between Draxum and the turtle. “You… made another mutant? And kept it quiet for 17 years?! Do you realise how insane that is?!” He blurted out, as yet another dispute broke out.

Mikey had stood back up on his feet at some point, standing in front of the tank as he observed the new mutant in front of him. It was uncanny how much it looked a lot like Leo. Mikey placed his hand on the surface of the tube again, closing his eyes when he felt that familiar pull from earlier encouraging him.

He was back in that empty void of darkness again, looking around, floating in the air as he saw a vibrant light pulsing brightly in-front of him.

It was blue…

It was Leo. The box turtle gasps inaudibly upon realising what this could mean. He remembered when he saw Leo’s soul earlier today. He wasn’t quite sure what he did, but he remembered sending the soul away, sending it to the best and nearest vessel it could store itself safely in.

And that vessel was this 17-year-old in-stasis turtle.

This turtle is Leo.

Mikey snapped out of it all and came back to the real world, smiling widely with tears of relief in his eyes as he turned around to the arguing trio.

”Guys! Stop fighting!” He announces, but it falls upon deaf ears making him grumble as he clears his throat. Inhaling a deep breath.

”EVERYONE SHUT UP AND LISTEN!”

His voice boomed and startled the three who jerked back at his command to gape over at him. Mikey waits a moment for his nerves to calm down before spreading his arms out wide, enthusiastically. “Leo is safe and fine, guys! This turtle right here—“ He pauses and gestured to the sleeping mutant.

”It’s actually Leo!”

”Whoa, slow down Mikey. Leo is over there.” Raph corrects in confusion, tilting his head to the side as Mikey nodded but then shook his head, “Yes, he is. But, but! If you let me explain why this is Leo. You’ll believe me.” He bubbly jumps up and down as he places his hand over his plastron.

”Long story short, out on the battlefield I connected myself to find Leo’s soul. I saved him and directed his soul to be stored somewhere safer, in-case he… I stored him in another body. And this is the body that Leo’s soul is currently in!”

They all stood and stared, Donnie crossing his arms. “Angelo, have you gone mad? That’s scientifically impossible.” He scolded but before he could rant about the science behind it and how that couldn't be true, Draxum steps forward.

”But not mystically impossible.” He rectifies, placing a hand under his chin in thought, “It’s incredibly rare but not unheard of, according to legends and rumours in the past, yokai and witches and any other beings who were mystically gifted, were able to transfer a soul into a different body. It’s a tricky concept to think about and even more difficult to actually succeed in and pull it off. But if what Michaelangelo says is true…” Draxum ceases, as he looks between the sleeping mutant and back over to where Leo’s actual body was now stored.

”…then it’s possible that Leonardo is inside this body. Serving him as a vessel of sorts.”

Raph and Donnie remained quiet, taking into account what was said. They were always learning more about the mystic side of the world, relying on their knowledge of Ninpo and what Draxum had been teaching them. Sometimes the yokai that were still around and aiding the Resistance would inform them of legends and rumours and even showcasing whatever mystic abilities they had to offer in the war against Krang.

The mystic world was vast and they were only still scratching the surface of it all. So, this whole soul being transferred into a new body wasn’t… entirely surprising if it could be explained via mysticism.

”Why isn’t Leo waking up, then?” Raph mumbled sadly, his attention back on the younger mutant. “He’s been like this for years. Only a few times he’s opened his eyes. Earlier today, just before I found you all he had opened his eyes again. With this soul transfer, it could possibly take a few weeks at best for him to properly wake up.” Draxum explained the statistics of the reason. Donnie clicked his tongue, finding all this hard to process and incredibly difficult to even accept.

”I’m going to my lab.” Was all he said, storming off as Raph watched on in concern.

“I’ll… go make sure he’s okay.” Raph adds, awkwardly leaving in a hurry and going after Donnie. Mikey remained where he was, observing the new body his oldest brother was now residing in.

”He’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if anything changes.” Draxum assures, placing a gentle hand on Mikey’s shoulder as the box turtle mutant nods. “Can…can I visit him?” He asks shyly, earning a surprised noise from Draxum who seemed to think it over a little before he nodded in tentative agreement.

“Yes, you can visit. In return, I would like to continue your mystic training again soon. I know that you are already incredibly powerful as you are now. But from what you’ve told us, you seem to have more untapped potential within you. It would be wise to learn more about it”

Mikey smiled up at his second dad appreciatively “Deal” He agreed, he turned back to his hand that was still resting on the tanks cool surface.

”Wake up soon, Leo.”

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

THIS IS ACTUALLY A VERY FUN STORY TO WRITE GUYS! Like I’m already getting fanart, got myself a beta reader. Life do be good!

APOLOGISE FOR ANY GRAMMAR MISTAKES THAT WERE MADE, I TYPE PRETTY FAST AND OFTEN DON’T SEE THEM UNTIL I ACTUALLY PUBLISH THE CHAPTER. THEN I’D TRY AND FIX ANY MISTAKES WHEN I SEE ONE.

Quotev - Do I Look Like Him?

Ao3 - Do I Look Like Him?

Taglist:

@turtl3sk3tch3s

[bittertincture]

Turn My Eyes | Chapter Four | Words are a Honeycomb | Priest!Joel

The Rating: Explicit (18+)

The Chapter Summary: A lighthearted exchange between you and Father Joel reveals a fleeting moment of connection, despite your guarded nature.

The Tags: I would like to withhold some tags for the sake of the story. But I will tell you that this story will deal with the following: Religion (which may be offensive to some readers), Religious Imagery, Religious Trauma, Violence, Explicit and Consenting Sexual Acts between Adults, Forbidden Relationship, Power Exchange, Mentions of Death, Angst. There is much more but those are the pertinent ones.

The MC:  The female character of “You” is able bodied with hair long enough to be grabbed. She is English speaking and while I wrote her from a white, former Catholic woman’s perspective, I hope the language I use is inclusive enough that many walks of life you can imagine themselves as her.

The Author’s Notes: It's been really lovely seeing all the hearts on here for my tale. It's been restrained so far but we have some dark and twisted lust on the horizon. Thank you so much for the wonderful response to this story! I’m truly grateful for your support and for taking the time to read along. If you enjoyed it, I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and feel free to re-blog. Your feedback and shares mean the world to me.

The Credits: The Line Dividers are by @saradika-graphics The Story Image is made by myself. If you would like to use it please give proper credit.

Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones - Proverbs 16:24

The morning light filters through the lace curtains, casting delicate patterns against the walls of your childhood bedroom. The bed is soft; the scent of lavender lingering on the pillow from Nana’s careful hands that feels like homecoming, but the weight in your chest reminds you that you don’t belong anywhere right now.

You roll onto your side, staring at the ceiling, your mind circling back to yesterday’s potluck. To the way Father Joel carried himself; poised, unreadable. You don’t trust people like that. The ones who hold themselves too still, who keep their words measured like they’re afraid of what might slip if they let their guard down. You saw it in his hands, the faint scars on his knuckles, the way his fingers twitched ever so slightly when someone spoke to him. He’s hiding something.

They always are.

You exhale, rubbing your temples, trying to shake him from your thoughts. It doesn’t matter. You won’t see him again.

The sound of dishes clinking from the kitchen downstairs reminds you that Nana is awake. You force yourself up, stretching your aching limbs. The bruise inside you, metaphorical, but no less painful, throbs dully. Your ex’s voice still lingers in your mind, twisting the truth until you don’t even trust your own memories. You wonder if you’ll ever feel like yourself again.

Downstairs, Nana greets you with a warm smile and a plate of biscuits. “Morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep well?”

You lie, because she deserves that much. “Yeah.”

She doesn’t believe you, but she lets it go. Instead, she starts talking about yesterday, about how happy she was to see you at church, even if she must have known you didn’t want to be there. She talks about the way things were when you first came to live with her, when you were just a grief-stricken teenager trying to make sense of losing everything. You love her for the way she tiptoes around the hurt, for the way she lets it settle without poking at it.

Then she brings up Margaret.

You don’t need to hear much to know Margaret already dislikes you. You could see it in her pursed lips, the way she sized you up like she’d already decided who you were before you even spoke. The kind of woman who thrives on rules and unspoken expectations. The kind you’ve always seemed to disappoint.

“I never did take to Margaret,” Nana admits, in the closest thing to gossip you’ll ever hear from her. “But she means well.”

You hum noncommittally. You aren’t sure you believe that. “She doesn’t like me.”

“You don’t know that,” Nana insists, stirring her coffee with slow, deliberate motions.

Sure I do. Women like her are all the same.

“Has she read my books?”

Nana sighs, pressing her lips together. “She knows about them.”

And there’s your answer; Margaret, self-appointed morality police of St. Vincent’s Catholic Church, would sniff out any perceived scandal like a bloodhound. You let out a short, humorless laugh.

“I don’t write them anymore,” you say, more for Nana’s benefit than anything.

She nods, taking a sip of her coffee before setting the cup down with a soft clink. “I know. And I think that’s for the best.”

Your jaw tightens. You know she never approved, even when the royalties paid your bills better than your ex ever could.

“But you used to love writing. I know you did. You got that scholarship remember? For that short story?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe you just need to write something like that again, something more wholesome.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling into your palm beneath the table. How do you tell her that the ugly, the taboo, the twisted are what flow so easily from your fingers? That the darker corners of the mind are the only places where the words come naturally? How do you tell her that purity feels like a lie when the world is anything but?

“Maybe,” you lie instead. So many lies so early in the morning.

Nana watches you, eyes warm but knowing. “You won’t know unless you try.”

She says it with such conviction, such unwavering faith in you, that for a brief moment, you almost wish you could be the person she wants you to be. But you aren’t. And you don’t think you ever will be.

"So, what did you think of Father Joel?" she asks, her voice full of expectation. You hesitate, the memory of the potluck still fresh, the way he felt just a little too polished. But Nana is watching you, waiting, her smile unwavering. You force a polite nod, unwilling to dampen her enthusiasm, but deep down, your opinion hasn’t budged.

“Seems nice.”

“He’s done so much for St. Vincent’s,” Nana beams at you, her eyes alight with admiration as she stirs a generous spoonful of sugar into her tea. “Just wait until you hear him preach during Easter. Wowee.”

She expects you to join her in that church full of people with forced smiles. They make your skin itch. You can’t imagine sitting through another sermon, pretending it means something to you when it doesn’t. You tell her as much, bracing for the disappointment in her face.

She nods, taking it in stride. “I understand, sugar. I do.” There’s a pause, then, softer, “Would you consider helpin’ with some volunteer work instead?”

You could say no. You should say no. But Nana asks for so little, and right now, she’s the only solid thing in your life. You owe her more than you can ever repay.

Nana is quiet as she waits for your reply, her hands wrapped tightly around the caramel-coloured drink in its chipped floral mug. The same mug she’s had since you first lived with her after the car crash that claimed your parent’s life. The car taking them to Sunday Mass of all places while you lay in bed with a fever, unaware that only two miles from home they lay unseeing in a fiery wreckage.

How can you deny her anything?

“Alright,” you say, the word heavy on your tongue. “What do you need help with?”

Her face lights up, and despite yourself, you feel the smallest flicker of warmth.

“On Tuesday we make up baskets for the needy,” she says. “Could always use an extra set of hands.”

You take a breath, letting the weight of it settle over you. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

She pats your hand, small but steady. “I knew you would.”

And just like that, you are tethered to something again, whether you want to be or not.

Father Joel had noticed you the moment he stood behind the pulpit that Sunday morning. Not because you carried yourself with reverence, not because you bowed your head in quiet contemplation, but because you didn’t.

You sat stiff-backed in the pew beside your grandmother; arms crossed over your chest, mouth curled ever so slightly into what could only be described as a smirk. You weren’t here for God. You were here for her. That much was obvious.

When he spoke his homily he observed that his words crafted with care and meant to uplift did not reach you.  Forgiveness would not reach you that morning. He knew this not because of any grand revelation but because he heard you scoff. A small sound, barely there, but in the cavernous quiet of the church, it may as well have been a shout.

Fascinating, he had thought, if not a little frustrating.

At the potluck you confirmed his suspicion. You had no love for the Church, no reverence for the men who donned collars and spoke of sin and salvation. You met his gaze too directly and your sharp words laced with a dry amusement that should have irritated him.

And yet Joel was no stranger to disdain. He had seen anger, grief and bitterness. He had counselled the lost, the faithless, the doubting. But you weren’t searching for answers, you weren’t looking for peace. You had built a wall, brick by stubborn brick and you had no intention of letting anyone inside.

The way you spoke to him was churlish, dismissive, yet edged with something lively, something almost teasing. It lingered in his mind longer than he cared to admit. And though he knew he should have been perturbed, he found himself amused instead.

You had not returned to mass since. Had he driven you away? Or had you simply indulged your grandmother’s wishes for one morning, never intending to come back at all? The question needled at him until, after the following Sunday service, he found himself approaching your Nana.

She smiled when she saw him, small and knowing, as though she had been expecting this conversation. After the casual greetings and enthusiastic praise for his sermon was over, Joel felt he could broach the subject of you more casually.

“Was that your granddaughter I met with you at the potluck?”

“Yes sir. My one and only.”

"She hasn’t been back," he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. “I worry my sermon scared her off. Or perhaps she was just visiting.”

Your Nana looked disappointed, sighing softly as she adjusted the gloves on her delicate hands.

"She’s here to stay for a while, though I doubt she’s happy about it.”

“Oh?” 

“She’s been through a lot, Father. The divorce, for one. Cleaned her out. The way that no-good s-” she catches herself, her weathered cheeks pinking. “Well, I can’t say exactly what he is in polite company.”

Joel can’t help but grin. He’s heard it all.  “Sure you can.”

“No,” your Nana insisted with that brittle immovability. “I can’t.”

Joel remained silent, allowing her space to speak, though the mention of your divorce sent an unbidden twist through him. He wondered if it had hardened you or if you had always carried that sharp edge, but before he could ask, Nana continued, her voice quieter now.

“But it’s more than that, really. Life hasn’t been kind to my granddaughter. She knows loss better than most. It started young, you see."

Oh.

"The Church used to be her refuge, once upon a time." Nana’s voice was wistful, her eyes drifting toward the stained glass windows. "But something changed. Now it feels more like a wound she can’t stop pressing on. She’s severed from it."

He had seen it, in the way you had sat in that pew, like an outsider, like someone standing at the edge of something once beloved, now foreign.

"She’s a lovely woman," Nana continued, and there was that small, amused glint in her eye, like she knew something he didn’t. "Smart as a whip, funny and a heart as big as all get out. She just doesn’t make it easy to see."

Joel chuckled under his breath.

“She’s gonna volunteer here with me on Tuesday night though,” your Nana said with a renewed enthusiasm. “With the hampers for the needy.”

“That’s wonderful,” Joel replied, a little taken aback by this He had assumed your distaste for the church would extend to every branch of it.

"Be patient with her," Nana said, her voice gentle but firm, as if she were bestowing a great piece of wisdom. "Not everyone finds their way back so easily."

Joel nodded, though he was not sure what patience would accomplish. He could not make you return. He could not make you see something in the Church that you no longer believed in.

And he could not, should not, dwell on the way your sharp tongue and unreadable eyes had lodged themselves into the quiet corners of his mind.

The evening air is crisp yet warm enough to kiss your cheeks as you and your Nana step inside the church hall that Tuesday evening. The scent of wax and old wood lingers in the space, mingling with the warmth of brewing coffee and the faint sweetness of donated pastries. Around the room, folding tables are lined with cans of soup, boxes of pasta, and bags of rice, all waiting to be packed into hampers for families in need.

Your Nana, determined as ever, rolls up her sleeves, though the weariness in her movements don’t escape you. She is smaller than she once was, her energy dipping in a way that worries you. Still, she smiles at you as she sinks into a chair at the head of the table, insisting she can manage just fine from there. You don’t argue. You know better.

The other women are already gathering, the ones you remember from the service, kind, gentle-faced, welcoming in a way that leaves you unsettled. You are an outsider in this world, yet here, they act as though you belong. Mrs.Clifford pulls you into a sweaty hug that you return, hiding your grimace.

“I was worried we might have scared you away,” she says with a jovial laugh.

“No. Not at all,” you lie.

Margaret, of course, is present too, standing like a sentry near the door with her arms folded over her chest. She is all tight smiles and sharp eyes, her voice coated in saccharine sweetness that does little to mask the steel beneath.

The group of you load the items onto the large folding tables creating an assembly line of perishables, socks and of course, a bible for each package. Chattering voices are on either side of you, your Nana giving you a sly wink from one end of the table. You return it, still feeling out of place.

"Well, let’s get organized, shall we?" Margaret’s voice carries over the quiet hum of conversation. "We’ll start at this side-"

She pauses as the doors squeal open and in he strolls.

Father Joel.

The room shifts around you, the air subtly changing, though you can’t quite explain how. In your mind he is not meant to be here. He is a figure of the pulpit, of hushed confessions and quiet authority. But here he is, rolling up his shirt sleeves like any other volunteer, stepping forward with that same steady warmth that unsettles you more than anything.

"Ladies," he greets, nodding to the group before his gaze lands on you. "Good to see you here."

“So wonderful to see you here, Father Joel,” your Nana says surprised.

"I hope y’all don’t mind if I join," Father Joel says, flashing a charismatic grin around the room. The women all give fluttering shakes of their head, their coos like the sound of a loving dove. You want to roll your eyes but hold it in.

“Of course not, Father,” Margaret gushes with delight, motioning to the space between the two of you. “Here, there’s a place right next to me.”

And you realize with an internal groan, right next to you. 

You hold your breath as he moves to stand beside you at the table. He’s taller than you, his profile striking when you spare a brief look his way.

“I didn’t think we’d see you tonight,” Margaret coos, the hampers on the table forgotten. “I thought the schedule said you would be at that seminar in Round Rock?”

Joel shifts his broad frame to look over to her, his shoulder bumping yours in the process. You pull back instinctively, your face twisting in irritation.

“Decided to skip it,” he murmurs. “Feel’s hypocritical to go to a meeting about volunteering in churches and then not do it with mine.”

The others, especially the older women, beam at him, their fondness apparent. Even your Nana brightens, sending you a look as if to say, See? Isn’t he lovely?

Margaret goes on to explain how the assembly like will work. Each partnered couple will place their items in the hamper and slide it to the next. Not rocket science and not all that interesting to you.

“You wanna partner up?”

Joel’s voice is low and warm, surprising you. You glance up to see him watching your face, his gaze unreadable. You shrug, aiming for nonchalance.

“Sure.”

His lips twitch, as though he’s suppressing amusement.

As the assembly line forms, you and Father Joel work quietly with one another packing canned goods, stacking boxes, ensuring each bag is filled evenly. You don’t speak much at first, but as the rhythm of work settles in, the stiffness eases.

The rhythmic sound of cans clinking together echoes softly in the church hall as you and Father Joel work side by side, your hands moving with practiced precision yet the air between you feels thick.

“So when did you move back here?” His voice is low, warm, the kind that lingers in the air like sunlight catching in a morning fog.

His eyes, steady and searching, don’t demand a response, but you feel them on you, and the question hovers between you like a weight.

You barely glance at him, a small shake of your head as you clip your reply, “A few months ago.”

There’s no elaboration, no invitation to know more, but his quiet persistence doesn’t let the silence stretch too long. He tilts a little closer ever so slightly, though not intrusively as he grabs the loaf of bread and tosses it into the bag.

“And how long will you be stayin’?”

He asks it gentle, measured, as though testing the waters of your reluctance.

You catch yourself for a fleeting moment, considering your words. You are tethered here only by the tenuous thread of your grandmother’s hope, but saying it out loud feels too raw. Too much of the truth for a conversation like this.

“I don’t know,” you murmur, your voice softer now, the edge dulling, just a little.

 Your hands hover over the pile of cans, arranging them with deliberate slowness. He nods, as though expecting nothing more, but there's an underlying note of quiet understanding in his gaze, something that makes you feel seen, not as a stranger or an outsider, but as a woman wrestling with more than she cares to admit.

You continue your work, and the rhythm settles again between you, but this time it’s different. The silence is not heavy with judgment or discomfort; it’s simply the space where things are left unsaid, and yet, in that space, you feel a strange kind of ease. He is warm in his presence, steady but not overbearing. He does not pry, does not push. And somehow, that makes it easier.

Father Joel’s hands pause over the cans, his eyes flicking to you with a glimmer of mischief.

“You know,” he says quietly, his voice carrying a soft chuckle, “I’ve always wondered why canned peas seem to find their way into every single hamper. Are they some kind of universal cure-all?”

His question hangs in the air, lighthearted, inviting a spark of humor. The corners of your lips twitch before you can stop them, the tension from before starting to loosen just a fraction. You meet his eyes briefly, the briefest flicker of amusement passing between you like a secret. It’s the first time you’ve truly relaxed since you walked into the room, and for some inexplicable reason, you find yourself responding just a little.

“You’d think they were the holy grail of vegetables,” you reply, your voice quieter, but with a touch of playful sarcasm you hadn’t intended to let slip.

You almost laugh but bite it back, letting only the slightest exhale of amusement pass, the sound surprising you more than him, but the way he smiles at you genuinely and without a hint of mockery makes it feel like you’ve been let in on some quiet, shared joke.

For a moment, you forget to guard yourself, and the weight of everything else; your past, your doubts, your walls, lightens just a little.

 He chuckles in return, a sound that resonates deeper than you would expect. You don’t know why, but the way he’s looking at you now, as though you’ve just cracked open the door to something more, unsettles you. Still, you let it linger, this small shift, this brief connection.

Until Margaret decides she’s had enough.

"My, my," she says, her voice too loud, too pointed as she curls around Joel to look your way, like the serpent testing Adam. "Look at you two, workin’ together so well. It’s lovely to see.”

Joel gives a brief nod by way of reply as he places the large ham into the hamper, his eyes focused on the task. You don’t bother looking over from what you’re doing, your mind elsewhere.

“It’s so nice to have new folks pitchin’ in, helping others.”

You glance over with your hands stilling over the box of pasta you were about to place in the hamper. You know that tone. It is the tone of a woman looking for a crack to widen a wound to press.

Joel, however, remains perfectly composed. “She must take after her Nana.”

“You’re right about that!” Your Nana laughs at the end of the table, her face pinking delightedly. “Now if y’all will excuse me, I’m gonna go powder my nose.”

Nana gives a soft grunt as she pushes herself from her chair. You watch her hunched form move out of the kitchen, her cane tapping away until it diminishes altogether.

As the assembly line continues to take shape, the older ladies hum in quiet conversation, their hands moving with an ease that comes from years of doing this work.

“It really is so lovely to have you here,” Mrs. Clifford says from across the table, her upper lip wet with sweat. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman.”

The words linger in the air longer than you’d like, hanging like delicate threads of praise that you’re not sure how to untangle. A flush creeps up your neck, your cheeks burning beneath the weight of it.

There’s a murmur of agreement around the table from the older women. You feel your face heating uncomfortably and you hunch your shoulders as you mutter out your thanks.

You clear your throat, shifting uncomfortably as you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of their slowing movements of the way the air feels heavier around you. That familiar, awkward feeling stirs inside you, but it’s quickly followed by something else, something more guarded, a prickling sense of self-consciousness.

Your eyes flicker over to Father Joel, his body close enough that you can feel the subtle shift of his presence beside you. Is he thinking the same thing as they are? Does he see it, too? Your breath catches in your throat, but you force your gaze back down to the hamper in front of you, unsure of how to move past the sudden vulnerability that has overtaken you.

The question hangs there, unspoken, but you feel it, his proximity, the quiet energy between you, the way his hand brushes just slightly against yours as you both reach for another can. You wonder if he notices it, too, or if it's only you who feels the fluttering pulse of something unexpected.

Margaret’s sharp gaze never strays far from you, her eyes glinting with a predatory watchfulness. She’s been hovering at the edge of your conversation, and as you and Father Joel continue working side by side, her attention shifts toward you with a kind of deliberate timing, as though she’s been waiting for just the right moment.

Her mouth, always tight, curves into a too-sweet smile as she curls around Father Joel to gaze at you like the serpent tempting Adam.

“The rest of us so little about you,” Margaret offers.

“Not much to know,” you say quickly.

You think you feel Joel’s eyes on your profile but you don’t give into your curiosity to make sure.

Margaret tilts her head, her smile polished to a gleam. “I never asked you at the potluck. What is it you do for work, dear?” she asks, her voice thick with the kind of saccharine interest that makes your stomach twist.

You hesitate. Not for long, but long enough for her and the other women to notice. The truth isn’t something you parade around town, especially not in a place like this, surrounded by insincere platitudes and old morals.

“I’m a writer,” you say carefully, hoping that will be enough to placate her today. “Or, I was a writer. I don’t really write anymore.”

Joel makes a noise of interest, but you barely notice because Margaret’s eyes have lit up with something that isn’t quite delight.

“Oh, how wonderful! We don’t get many writers around here. What do you write?”

The words are laced with meaning and the way she says it, so innocent and dripping in false politeness that it makes your skin prickle. She knows damn well what you used to write.  

You clear your throat, shifting your weight as another bag of rice goes into the hamper. “Romance,” you admit, keeping it clipped. “I used to write romance novels.”

You feel the temperature rise in your chest, your pulse quickening, as Margaret continues, her words laced with a thinly veiled edge. Her smile deepens, just a fraction.

“Oh, I thought so.” She folds her hands primly in front of her. “I remember hearing about your books a few years back. You did quite well for yourself, didn’t you?”

Your fingers tighten around the loaf of bread you package. You did do well for yourself back when sales were strong, before marriage, before the messy divorce that left you too drained to write anything that didn’t feel like pulling teeth.

“One book. Yeah.” You raise your head to give Mrs. Clifford a warm smile. “Mrs. Clifford, could you pass me the-“

“I remember hearing about it,” Margaret continues with a little giggle to herself, the sound like nails on a chalkboard.

Father Joel’s posture stiffens beside you as Margaret’s gaze flicks to the other ladies, who are now listening with curious interest, like hens pecking at a scrap of gossip.  Her voice lowers dramatically, but not so low that everyone can’t hear.

“It was similar to that… Twenty Shades book, right?”

You want to shrink, to disappear, but instead, all you can do is stand there, feeling the sting of her words like an open wound being scraped raw. You can’t reply.

Margaret’s expression is all warmth on the surface, but there’s a glint in her eyes, a quiet triumph, like she’s just coaxed a confession out of you without ever having to ask. “You must let us know if you ever write something… more wholesome,” she adds, her smile never wavering.

Margaret’s thin smile widens, but you catch the faintest flicker of satisfaction in her eyes. She’s relishing this, the discomfort she’s causing, the way your past is spilling into the present, tainting everything.

You feel the heat of Joel’s body press a little too close as he shifts, his hand hovering near the edge of the hamper. When you finally raise your eyes Father Joel is watching you. Not with pity. Not with amusement. Just... watching. Waiting to see how you will respond.

You exhale slowly, smoothing your hands over the table. Then, with deliberate ease, you pick up the pasta, drop it into the hamper, and meet Margaret’s gaze head-on.

 “Sure, Margaret. I’ll be sure to do that.”

“Wonderful,” she says about to say something to Sadie across from her when you cast your own syrupy grin her way.

“But it’s nice to know you enjoyed my book,” you say, voice light, lilting, just enough of a smirk curling at the edge of your mouth.

She stops dead in her tracks, her pale eyes widening as she stares at you. “P-Pardon me?”

“You mentioned knowing my book,” you say with a casual air of indifference. You place the can of green beans into the paper bag. “So I just figured you were a fan of my work.”

Margaret’s face is pink and splotchy. From your peripherals you think you see Joel’s mouth twitch into a suppressed smirk under his facial hair.

“I don’t… I don’t read dirty books,” she says the last two words in a whisper. You’re gratified to see her face has turned a deep maroon. It takes everything in you not to laugh out loud.

“Oh, I see,” you give her a thoughtful look. “So then you’re just a fan of me.”

A pause. A beat of silence. And then Father Joel laughs. It’s not a chuckle, not a restrained, polite sound. It’s a full, rich laugh, genuine in a way that sends heat curling through your chest.

Margaret purses her lips, clearly un-amused but the other women chuckle as well, shaking their heads in amusement. Clearly Margaret is not the beloved figure she thinks she is. You watch as her polished face morphs and she gives a false giggle, something that feels like nails on a chalkboard.

“Oh you are so funny,” she says with a toss of her silky hair over one shoulder. “Just like your Nana. I bet the both of you just sit up there all alone in that big house laughin’ all day and night.”

Your smile and amusement dies in an instant and Margaret sees the change. Her eyes linger just a moment longer, as if savouring whatever small victory she thinks she’s won, before giving you a final, knowing smile and sweeping her gaze away toward the other women.

Father Joel takes a slow breath, his gaze soft but steady as he turns toward Margaret. His voice, when he speaks, is gentle, almost paternal in a way that carries weight without needing to raise itself.

“Today I was thinkin’ about this weeks homily,” he begins, his tone calm and measured as he continues to work on the hamper. “There’s a verse in the Bible, from Proverbs 16:24, that says, Gracious words are a honeycomb, sweet to the soul and healing to the bones. It reminded me that the words we speak can either lift someone up or tear them down.”

His eyes shift briefly toward you, though he’s careful to keep his focus on the group as a whole, ensuring no one feels singled out. “It’s wonderful to know how words have this powerful ability to soothe or hurt.”

His words hang in the air, thoughtful, but not reprimanding.

"A kind word is a sweet thing, like honey in the heart," he says as he smiles, the corners of his plump mouth softening with understanding, but his gaze never wavers from the group.

“I don’t recognize that verse,” Mrs. Clifford says softly.

“That’s alright Helen, it’s because it’s not from the Bible. It’s from a poem. "A Garden of Peace by John Masefield.”

With one final glance around the table, he lets the silence linger for just a moment longer before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Now, shall we get back to building these hampers, so we can spread some of that sweetness around.”

There’s no accusation in his tone, no judgment, only a quiet reminder of the grace that should guide their words and yours. A flutter of soft laughter like the wings of a butterfly sounds around the table, the tension broken as busy hands get back to the task in front of you. You don’t bother looking over at Margaret.

He tilts your way, shoulder against yours only now you don’t pull away. You accept it, your hands busy working. At this closer distance you observe he smells incredible. Something clean, fresh, with a whisper of something deeper. Sandalwood, maybe. It clings to him, just as the hint of warmth from the night air lingers on his skin.

You hate that you notice. You hate that the sight of him, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with fine hair, does something strange to your stomach. Unaware of your inner turmoil Joel leans just slightly closer, voice lowered so only you can hear.

"You think you’ll consider comin’ to Mass on Sunday if I bring canned peas? They are the holy grail of vegetables after all."

[flawseer]

Speculations on Sky

Okay, as I am re-reading it now, my previous reply to @asleepinglaurel feels like a bit of a cop-out answer, so let me try this again.

I can’t really tell you anything about who Sky is because I’ve never met him, figuratively or literally. But maybe I can tell you what I THINK he would be like if I had to imagine the kind of life Peril’s brother would lead. This is going to be speculation mostly; people who have read Dragonslayer may be amused by how wildly off-base I am.

My first impression is that Sky’s life would be very heavily impacted by his condition, having to deal with a lot of complications arising from it. He has no fire within him whatsoever, meaning he can’t regulate his own temperature, so every day of his would be a struggle to stave off the effects of hypothermia. He is completely dependent on external heat sources to keep his system healthy and functional, to be able to move, to digest food, etc.. Every day, he would need to lie motionless on a hot surface in the sun for hours, ideally as long as he can. Winter (the season, not the character) would be very dangerous to him.

He is basically an inverse Peril. Where Peril’s body produces a seemingly endless amount of heat (to a ridiculous degree even), his would be supernaturally heat-consuming, constantly draining it from its surroundings without ever stopping. He would basically be a kind of involuntary heat vampire. Touching him would feel similar to stepping onto a cold bathroom tile; just sucks the warmth right out of your limbs. If Wren was carrying him, she would need to be very careful to stay warm herself and take regular breaks, making sure her own body can keep up with the constant draining of heat.

Sky might be the only dragon able to safely touch Peril without supernatural intervention. Her eternal fire is the only thing that can match his body’s voracious hunger for heat. Interestingly, I think if Sky and Peril were to touch each other, both of their temperatures would average out to a normal range. Peril would become safe to touch for others, while Sky would probably feel truly warm for the first time in his life. At least until they separate again and both of their bodies return to their previous temperatures.

I can’t really make a lot of guesses about his personality. He was abandoned by Kestrel while very young, and judging by how Peril didn’t remember much about her mother before being told about her, and themb being the same age, I assume he doesn’t really know who she was either. He probably just remembers being out in the wilderness for some nebulous reason and then maybe he imprinted on Wren when she found him. If that’s how they met; I don’t know. Maybe Wren’s people captured him and tried to eat him or something too. He might feel bitter about having been abandoned by dragons, feel a longing to be a part of the world that cast him out, or not care at all.

They wouldn’t really be able to stay in Skywing territory because the Skywings, while under Scarlet’s rule, were notoriously hostile towards dragons with birth conditions. So they probably had to travel a lot, evading Skywing patrol flights.

Sky’s best chance of having a semi-comfortable life might be to go to the rainforest. Tropical climates are typically warm and see little temperature fluctuation throughout the year, so that would be the least dangerous place for him to be. The desert would be less ideal, as while it would be okay for him during the day, desert nights can get very cold. Meanwhile the Ice Kingdom would be instant death. Just stay away from there.

If they can’t find anywhere else, the Nightwing volcano island might be viable as a last resort. It would fulfill all of Sky’s temperature needs, though I imagine him and Wren would rather appreciate being able to breathe.

As for whether he’d ever meet up with Peril and rekindle some kind of familial relationship, I’d say it depends. He doesn’t really have any connections to dragons that know Peril personally. If he met a dragon who was able to intuit that his condition is somewhat similar to Peril’s, there is a chance they’d say something like “Oh, you remind me of that crazy murderer dragon from the Sky Kingdom. She is terrifying.”. I feel like that would make him feel less inclined to want to seek her out. So while there is a possibility of him learning he has a sister, his willingness to pursue her would be entirely dependent on how he acquires the information of her existence.

All right, those are pretty much my thoughts on Sky. I hope this is entertaining and I didn’t butcher the guy too much.

[wadinginthevelvet]

sorry but I love the Izzy “dangling my legs over the side of the ship” scene because like. he’s literally right. it DOES serve him right.

Ed was deeply heartbroken but coping healthily until Izzy got in his head & made him feel like all he deserved was destruction. Ed TRUSTED Izzy, and this person who he felt knew him & saw him & cared about him essentially confirming in his view that he doesn’t deserve good things and only has worth as a monster— that being soft was worse for him than being dead— made him feel that he truly was unloveable and shoved him over the edge into the Kraken persona. plus Izzy ASKED him to be violent! he grinned when he cut off his toe! the beginning of s2 is Izzy realizing that a. Ed is not actually happy as Blackbeard and is in fact destroying himself and b. Izzy himself has grown to care for this crew in a way he didn’t realize he had and maybe actually has some human empathy. and doesn’t want them to be brutalized. which I honestly don’t think he had a handle on before it was too late & he’d already set them up for this level of violence. and also clearly he did NOT know Ed in the way he thought he did! he didn’t realize he cared about the crew like that, but he also didn’t think Kraken-Ed would be that intense. he thought that horrible pep talk was what Ed needed to get back to being pre-Stede Blackbeard, not realizing that pre-Stede Blackbeard was a facade Ed was already deeply unhappy and insecure underneath, but also failing to comprehend (or even notice) the extent of Ed’s trauma and lack of self-worth and the fairly obvious (to anyone who actually knew or understood Ed) fact that telling him those things would shatter his very fragile belief that he deserved these tenuous but brave attempts at taking care of himself and trying to become who he wanted to be. Kraken-Ed was not who Izzy thought he would trigger when he gave him the talk, because he didn’t actually know or understand him like he thought he did. & that’s what he’s coming to terms with in s2 and it is a wonderful arc! lots of people have written fantastic metas about Izzy & his motivations and the complexity of his realization that he didn’t know Ed like he though he did & wasn’t close to him like he thought he was so I won’t bother to fully go into that here as interesting as it is. but like.. he asked for violence & he got it. he didn’t have a good handle on his own feelings about the crew/piracy and he evidently had zero handle on Ed’s (he is masterful at suppression but isn’t emotionally intelligent enough to be able to tell Ed is too), and while yeah it was Ed’s trauma and whole brutal career as a pirate and this glimpse at a different future and Stede’s betrayal all coming together to cause Ed’s eventual breakdown, Izzy’s talk is what made him give up and pushed him overboard into the Kraken era. he convinced him he was worthless if he wasn’t a monster, & in doing so unleashed that monster onto himself and the crew. he taunted the shark and lost a leg. I don’t think there’s anything unhealthy about him framing it like that— he isn’t suppressing his feelings about it or pretending it didn’t happen— he’s just processing & accepting the truth of the matter. when Lucius says Blackbeard cut off his leg and Izzy says “a shark did this”, he’s acknowledging it wasn’t really Ed who shot him, but a violent, hopeless, actively suicidal caricature of Blackbeard, a monster Izzy helped create. Izzy isn’t Ed’s victim— they’re an eye for an eye now. and I’m glad he acknowledged it like that

[tinylilvalery]

Shiv weaponises her vulnerability to victimise herself to force Tom into forgiving her [1][2] + doesn't respect his boundaries [3][4] when he needs space from her.

1. In 1.10 Shiv comes clean to Tom on their wedding night about her cheating on him, AFTER their marriage (despite Tom asking her beforehand and giving her a chance then). Shiv weaponises her vulnerability into forcing Tom to forgive her, bringing up how when they met she was a "mess" and in a "very bad place" and how she needs him and also tries to gaslight Tom about their relationship never being monogamous. He forgives her because he's in a difficult position (divorce on the same night as marriage?? She didn't give him an out to call off the wedding beforehand and waited until after he was secured), he loves her, and he's forced to sympathise and accept things.

2. Shiv only apologises to Tom when she sees how cold he's being with her in 4.8. There's real danger he's actually done with the relationship. The kicked dog isn't returning to heel. She apologises. He doesn't accept it (you don't have to accept an apology, especially if you're still upset and someone is tryna force an apology on you because THEY feel bad and want to alleviate their guilt and return things to something that THEY'RE comfortable with). She uses the fact that her dad just died, which doesn't change the fact that everything he said in the prior fight was true. Their relationship had been shit for ages prior to Logan's death, therefore Logan's death doesn't excuse the rest of the relationship, and he's still immovable. Damn, he's always comforted and folded to her before, he's not doing that right now. Shit. Bring out the heavy. I'm pregnant and it's yours! The ultimate card to reel him back. He wanted a baby right? But he doesn't even believe her now... Why should he care anyway? How much has she ever cared about him?

3. In 4.7 Tom walks away from Shiv and goes to the balcony, needing space, telling Shiv he's tired. She doesn't respect this need for space and corners him on the balcony, literally not allowing him any reprieve, and actively mocks him for being exhausted, pressing and pressing him until he snaps, despite the fact he didn't even want to fight in the first place. He needed space and wasn't allowed to have it.

4. Tom is exhausted and stressed out of his mind in 4.8 with his job (something that means the world to him and yet also something Shiv has never taken seriously - and how could she understand the importance it holds for him when she's a nepo baby). He asks Shiv to talk about this another time and that he can't do this right now. She doesn't respect his request and presses her needs above his and takes him aside again and isolates him, and then acts surprised and offended when he doesn't respond how she wants him to. Ironically if she had actually respected him asking to talk another time when he wasn't so stressed, she might have gotten the results she wanted: Tom back in her pocket.

[lilacthebooklover]

the tag limit has foiled me again so i'll paste all of my thoughts on this below instead :]

#these sort of arcs are always so potent and beautiful#these people are broken#they've been systematically taken apart and fractured and warped into something they no longer recognise#they've had so much ripped away from them#so little choice in their own lives#so little to be happy for#only for a new day to come#and a new life with it#where they have support and love and a reason to keep going#and they want to use it#there are people they want to live for#things they want to experience#they have a past to make up for and all the months that have yet to ruin them#there's hope and relief and warmth and comfort#because their experiences don't define them#their trauma doesn't define them#despite what they've been through#they're able to build a better life with the lights who pulled them from a period of darkness that seemed inescapable#they have friends and family and can finally find happiness#can enjoy the little things#like freshly baked cookies or riding a bike or smiling at a friend#all the mundane elements of life that suddenly seem to much sweeter#they want to live#and then that's all ripped away#and for what#what was the point in ridding them of that chance?#in trapping them in a state of existence where they can never truly heal?#there's hope and relief and warmth and comfort and it's all so easily destroyed by the all-consuming inevitability of death#because is anything worth anything when it will all end eventually#they have no control over such things#they've had no control all along#and all that they are#all that they've been through#all that they represent#that entire arc coalesces and implodes in one final moment of helplessness and loss#until there's nothing left at all#and those fragments have been ground to sand#and doesn't it seem so hopeless that this character#this embodiment of what it means to move on#is stopped forever before they ever get a chance to?#because through death they're redefined#as a martyr or a sacrifice or another meaningless fatality#another immortalised corpse who'd only just begun to be loved#i suppose there's some comfort at least#in that now they know#there will actually be someone to mourn them now#when the narrative has finally deemed them worthless#and brings every awful experience together in one final#fatal#bang

[bi-writes]

anatomy of us (3) | alpha!ghost x f!omega!reader

type: limited series, part 3 (9.8k), AO3 in an attempt to tame an unruly alpha, you are given. he did not come with warning labels. but neither did you.

series cw: reader described as plus-sized/curvier, alpha/beta/omega dynamics + universe, dark!simon, mature language and content, suggestive language and content, graphic depictions of murder + violence (this part contains graphic depictions of gore + murder + minor character death), military criticism, protective!simon, dubcon (but reader does consent), possessiveness, dom/sub dynamics, size kink, praise kink, unprotected piv, cumplay, oral (fem!receiving) 18+

PART 1 ⏤ PART 2

The mirror betrays you. There’s someone staring back, but it isn’t you. You don’t recognize her. Whoever is there, she’s a traitor. A liar. She stole what used to be your body, and now you can only stare back as she lifts her hands to your face and touches your skin.

It’s warm. Your cheeks are warm to the touch, skin bouncy and firm. When you pull on the apples of your cheeks, they bounce right back, elastic almost. You’re glowing, too. Your skin has never looked so soft, so smooth.

Something’s different.

You bring your hands up and cup your own breasts. When you squeeze, you shudder, realizing how sensitive you are. They ache a little, feel heavier than normal. Your bra feels a little tight, too. Your hands drop and grip the sink firm, and you swallow hard before turning to face the door.

Your body is telling you something. It’s trying to talk to you. It’s natural, you know it is, and it is inevitable, and you shouldn’t hate your omega for it because she can’t help it, but you do. It’s what’s happening to you because you’re off your meds. Your hormones are firing like they never have before, and the voice in your head is starting to talk to you in a way that sounds way too appealing. She’s starting to sound right. You like the way she’s talking to you, especially after…

You haven’t spoken to him yet. You haven’t talked about it. It’s only been a few days, but you don’t think you can sleep next to him for one more night and pretend like you don’t know what it’s like for him to be dick-deep inside of you and satiating the shrill insanity that lives under your skin.

So big. So capable. Isn’t he so strong? I bet he tastes good. Let’s find out.

You open the bathroom door slowly. Simon is sitting there on the bed, phone in his hand. He’s typing, eyes narrowed in thought, and you make the door creak so he knows you’ve come out.

“Everythin’ olright in there?” Simon asks. He doesn’t look up from his phone. You decide to be mean, because you can be. You want to be.

Fuck off, you tell her, try to. All she wants to do is get Simon on his back on that bed.

Can we just suck his dick already? It’s right there.

“What do you care?” You mumble. You go to the closet to pick out something to wear. It’s a Sunday, which means there won’t be much to do today besides relax and eat. Johnny invited you to Mass, which you promptly declined, and you didn’t much feel like spending time with Captain Price or finding out which beta would be underneath Gaz tonight (more than one, would be your guess, but it could’ve been another alpha, too, he doesn’t seem to care as long as he can devour something whole).

You don’t turn around to see Simon’s reaction. Maybe he doesn’t react at all. You grab a pair of jeans and drop your sleep shorts. Ever since Simon had taken you on a roof, you decided it was no use trying to change in the bathroom anymore–he’d seen everything, anyways. You step into the jeans and pull them up, jumping a little to get them over your hips, and just as you’re about to adjust the waist, you feel him come up behind you.

Simon grips both sides of your jeans and hikes them up around your middle. You suck in a breath as he slides his hands around, zipping them up, deft fingers finding the button and fastening them. You huff as he keeps walking, forcing your front flat against the closet doors until he can press his chest up against you from behind.

Remember how good he felt? Let’s do it again. Take them off.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss. Your omega purrs. She softens your insides. You grip the closet, irritated, but you can’t help the way you bend at the hip and push back into him. He snarls as he puts his hands on your hips, holding you there. You can feel her, pushing against you. It’s getting harder every day to shove her backwards–there’s a part of you that doesn’t want to.

Is that part me? Or are we drifting together?

“Wot does it look like?” Simon murmurs. “I smell you.”

Yes, yes, yes, let him. Take it off. Take them off. Let him have it.

“What did I say before?” You let your arms fall, and you smack his hands off of you. You turn around to glare up at him, grinding your teeth. “Boundaries, Simon. You need to ask for permission.”

“I don’t have to do anythin’,” Simon bites back. “I said some things before, too, didn’t I? Y’r mine.”

Oh, that’s how he wants it to be. You can see it in his eyes, the way his alpha is feeding him lies. Feeding into his ego. He’s got tendrils that are choking him from the inside-out, trying to tell him to be the bigger species, the more dominant figure. Your omega wants to let him, but that isn’t you. Fuck submission–it’s just not your style. You’re a taker, not a giver, and your omega will need to learn that the hard way.

You lean up on your toes, pressing your forehead to his. You meet his alpha in the middle, not backing down. You can be nasty, too. You can be dangerous. You might not have his build nor his strength, but omegas have teeth, and they are sharp.

“Then you better sleep with one fucking eye open, Simon. Cause I’ll kill you if you put your hands on me without asking.”

You make sure you hit him on your way around him. You open the drawers of the dresser angrily, ripping a shirt out. You slip your pajama shirt off, tossing it onto the floor, and you fit your bra straps over your shoulder before turning around. Simon is still staring like a dog–eyes watery and intense, staring right at your tits, and you grab a pillow off the bed and throw it at him.

“Oh my god!” You cry, and he sucks on his teeth under the mask.

“Mmm…” He puts a hand over his chest, rubbing there. If he didn’t have it on, you have a feeling he’d a smug grin on his stupid face. “My mate is fuckin’ naked, wot you want me to do, look away?”

“Yes, exactly, you pig,” you mumble, clasping your bra and fixing it to cover yourself before slipping your t-shirt on. You frown as you pick up a clip to tie up your hair. “And we’re not mates.”

“Tha’ right?”

“That’s right,” you say curtly. You turn to give him a hard stare as you slip your boots on. “As far as anyone else can tell, I’m not claimed.” You run a few fingers over your scent gland. Soft. Unmarked. Pulsing.

It’s like you’re taunting him. He snarls a little at that, something low and territorial under the mask.

“Tha’ wot you want? Me to claim you?”

“No,” you stand on your toes, faces barely touching. The air in the room is humid and thick, curling, competing scents making you a little dizzy. “I want you to drop dead.”

It’s half of a lie. It would be funny, you think, to see Simon eat a bullet or catch on fire and perish in a frenzy of equal pain and misery, but you know Kate would just do it all over again to you. There are no shortage of alphas at her disposal. With a swipe of her signature, she can have you moved halfway across the world again, and you’d like to not end up on the CIA’s bad side because you keep spending all their money on flights and bribes to get you some kind of mate that will tolerate an indifferent omega such as yourself.

An unruly one. A terrible one. A decisive one.

You don’t really want Simon dead. Better the beast you know than the one you don’t, and from the time you’ve spent with Simon, he is all bark, no bite.

For now.

Meals are always awkward. You feel like all you and Simon do is snap at each other lately. Call each other names. Spit nasty insults. Maybe it isn’t fair to be angry with Simon; you have a feeling he didn’t have much of a choice, same as you, but it doesn’t matter, because nothing really changes in his life the way it changes in yours.

Simon isn’t the one that loses himself. Simon isn’t the one that has to wear a brand on himself, a permanent reminder of his submission. Simon isn’t the one that has to succumb to things he can’t control about himself–the heats that last for days, the ones that will burn you from the inside out until it gets that nasty fill that your omega was born for.

Ruts just aren’t the same, you don’t believe it. They can swallow them down. Save them for later. It isn’t a comfortable thing to do, but if an alpha is missing their omega, they can satiate themselves with a lazy hand or a soft mouth until they get what they’re searching for.

Omegas aren’t offered the same luxury. If you don’t get what your omega feeds off of, she might kill you–and you don’t need to be reminded that you and your omega aren’t exactly on great terms.

The boys are quiet at breakfast. John has secluded himself in his office for the day, but Simon’s sergeants are pretty quiet for how much they usually babble. They are, however, shoving their faces in with food in a matter that makes you scowl.

They’re dogs, really. Johnny looks positively famished. He’s got his cheeks pillowed with eggs and toast, and you look away from Gaz as he tips his head back to wash down a mouthful of ham with coffee.

You jump when you feel a fist hit the table. It rattles the trays, and Johnny’s orange juice splatters a little outside of the cup. Simon is back from the kitchen, sliding your own tray in front of you. Your mouth waters a little at the smell of the freshly baked croissant and moka pot of coffee that waits for you, and the sergeants grumble a little as they look up at their lieutenant.

“Would you both fuckin’ eat with y’r fuckin’ mouths closed?” Simon snaps. “Bloody rats eat more proper than you lot.”

“What’s the matter, LT?” Johnny gulps down his food, wiping his mouth with a wet thumb. He smiles at you with teeth, and you pick up your fork to busy yourself. You can see feel his crazy eyes on you, trained on your face. He licks over his teeth as he does. “Want us to be proper gentlemen around yer bonnie girl?” He wiggles his tongue at you. “What’s proper about knotting a pretty little omega like tha’, aye? Can smell ‘er from ‘ere…Smell like taffy.”

Simon takes a seat on the bench next to Johnny. You stare wide-eyed as Simon cocks his head to the side. Your eyes water a little as you see Simon slide a big hand up Johnny’s neck. He leans into it, clearly comfortable (you’re going to try and forget this observation), but his face contorts from contentment to sheer pain as Simon wraps his gloved fingers into the curls of his mohawk and pulls. Johnny’s neck snaps back at a hard angle, making him hiss and kick his legs out. They bang against the table, shaking it, and Gaz looks down at his plate as Simon tugs Johnny close to him.

“You listen ‘ere, Sergeant. I’ll say this once, and I won’t repeat it,” Simon growls. “If I hear you say one more word about my mate’s cunt, I’ll rip your throat out with my own teeth. Don’t care ‘ow many times you’ve covered me or saved my arse on the field. My rank is her rank, so from now on, I want you to drop y’r eyes when she looks at you, and I want you to say, yes, ma’am, and nothin’ else, you ‘ear that?” Johnny grits his teeth as Simon shakes his head violently, holding him firm. “And if I hear about it when I’m not around, I’ll let her cut y’r dick off, yeah? Or maybe I’ll let her shoot you in the head again. And trust me, mate, she won’t miss–”

“Simon,” you interrupt gently. Simon’s face turns, and you meet his eyes. You shake your head a little. “It’s…it’s okay. Johnny’s just a huge flirt, and it came out wrong. Didn’t it, Johnny?”

Simon closes his fist, letting out a sharp breath. His eyes are a little darker than you’re used to. You’re not sure he’ll listen to you, but when you see his fingers start to loosen, you relax a little. You don’t understand why he’s defending you, anyways, but maybe Simon has some twisted moral code when it comes to insulting his mate.

That only he gets to, and no one else.

“Yeah–” Johnny spits, and when Simon lets him go roughly, Johnny just laughs a little. His cheeks are rosy, and he tries to shake it off, but you can tell by the way he averts his eyes and the smell that wafts from him–Johnny is terrified of his lieutenant.

Simon stands, making the table rattle again. Johnny’s cup spills over the edge, and your cutlery falls to the floor as he makes his way out of the mess hall, throwing the doors open and letting them slam shut behind him. You scoff, rolling your eyes, and you swipe Gaz’s fork from his tray before continuing to eat.

“What the fuck is his problem?” You stab your sausage with the fork, cutting it angrily, and Johnny clears his throat. His rubs the back of his neck, rolling it out carefully.

“Yer serious?” Johnny scoffs. “Fuckin’ big man is in love with ye.”

Not me. He’s in love with…her.

“He’s just mad because he thinks he’s the only one entitled to say anything derogatory to me,” you explain. “He’s such an asshole, I swear. So are you, Johnny, by the way–I’m not gonna wet your dick for you, go flirt with someone else.”

Gaz snorts, shaking his head, and you pour him a little more coffee from the pot Simon left for you and some for yourself.

“Kind of sweet, innit?” Gaz murmurs. “He cares about you, you know.”

“Yeah?” You raise a brow. “Has a real funny way of showing it. You don’t see him when we’re alone. He’s mean. I don’t know what goes on in your heads, but your kind jump to conclusions. And you assume. And you’re too aggressive.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Gaz asks. He turns to look at you, shrugging. “That’s how we’re made.”

“I try everyday to be anything but how I’m made,” you say lowly.

It’s a lousy excuse, especially for an operative like him. Kyle and Johnny are no strangers to aversion or high-stakes. There is combat, and then there is what this team does. You’ve peeked at the papers on Simon’s desk. You’ve read the files you have no clearance to read. For the air-headedness that Simon radiates, he’s excellent at writing post-op reports, with fine detail. He doesn’t miss anything. This team isn’t something like SWAT–they don’t carry big guns for show and break down suburban houses. They hit foreign targets without a trace and eliminate threats before they blink. They are in and out of a building in thirty minutes, and they leave no man behind and no target alive. Each of them are experts in their own subject, and even with Johnny’s big, disgusting mouth, you cannot deny what makes him special.

He could make an explosive out of regular kitchen supplies; maybe even out of the toiletries you keep in a go-bag. His affection for chemistry is as equal to that of a good, protein-rich meal. Kyle is no different–you’ve seen him just for fun program an auto-correct feature into John’s laptop that replaced every word that he typed that started with a vowel to shitfucker. You saw him do it remotely. Over Bluetooth. With a Blackberry.

These aren’t just operators. These aren’t just idiot, self-engorged, misogynistic and animalistic men that panted and waited for orders like lovesick puppies, they are much too intelligent and way too self-aware. You won’t take that’s how we’re made as an excuse–it’s beneath them, if you’re being honest, and it’s infuriating. They aren’t a normal pack, and they never will be, and so you need them to stop using stereotypical excuses as reason for them being just like the rest.

It is conscious. It’s disgusting. It’s exactly as you thought it would be.

“Well maybe if ye tried that less, tried just being what ye are…things would be easier for ye,” Johnny mutters, picking up his overturned cup and sighing sharply through his nose. You drop your fork and lean forward on your elbows.

Oh, alright. If Johnny wants to play rank, then you can play rank.

“You know, you both have a lot of nerve,” you say lowly. “I would start being very fucking nice to me from now on. Simon and I may not get along, and maybe we never will. But he sure as shit won’t stand aside if tuck my tail between my legs and blame one of you for something you didn’t do.”

“Thought you said he hated you?” Gaz mocks. “Thought you said he was mean?”

You stand up and shove your tray towards them, starting to walk. You lean over to murmur in Gaz’s ear.

“He is,” you threaten. “But he’s still an alpha, my alpha, and pussy talks, Gaz. You’d know. You’ve been drooling for it since I sat down. I can smell you, too.”

You pat Gaz’s cheek a bit too roughly, and he snarls a little. You smile to yourself as you make your way out, and down the hall, you see a familiar shadow disappear around the corner into the darkness. You cross your arms over your chest, sighing, and then you start towards it.

When you round the corner, he’s standing right there. Leaned against the wall, big arms crossed over his chest. His face twitches under the mask. You move to stand in front of him so you can get his eyes.

“You know, for someone who doesn’t want to babysit me, you can’t seem to leave me alone.”

“I have others to answer to if something happens to you.”

“Don’t act like you care what other people think. Especially your superiors.” You roll your eyes. You don’t have much more time to talk to him. Or berate him, you were still deciding. A shadow comes up next to you, and when you turn, Captain Price is staring at you both, nodding his head behind him.

“I need to have a word. With both of you.”

You give Simon a look, but he doesn’t give one back. He merely slips a hand down your back and puts you in front of him, ushering you to walk. You’ve never been reprimanded by a superior, not because of a mission or anything of stake, so you can’t help the feeling that overcomes you–something of failure.

Had you done something wrong? Surely you had.

John’s office is bigger than Simon’s, but just as messy. Messier. There’s a pretty beta secretary out in front of it, and she smiles at you and waves. She’s too cute–too sweet. She probably puts sugar in John’s tea to make him smile or draws little smiley faces on messages from missed calls. You pity her and wish you were her all the same. When she notices your solemn face, she shrinks and dips her head, picking up her pen and continuing to fill out some forms.

John waits for both you and Simon to sit before shutting his office door behind him. He sucks on his teeth before tossing his hat onto his desk, nodding towards the two creaky seats in front of him.

“Sit.”

“Rather stand,” Simon counters, but one hard look from his captain, and Simon is begrudgingly taking a seat. The metal creaks under his weight, and you take a seat next to him. John sits on his desk in front of you both, and he looks at Simon before ending on you.

The scents in the air are driving you insane. You take a breath to try and keep your eyes from watering, but it’s difficult.

“You know, Kit, our team isn’t known for…following the rules,” John begins. “But I was assured that…if anything went wrong, that my lieutenant here would be responsible. He vouched for you.”

You fold your hands in your lap. You prepare yourself for the beratement. You sit up a little straighter, squaring your shoulders. The neutral expression your face falls into seems to irk your captain. He scrunches his nose a bit, smoothing a palm over the papers in front of him. He’s trying to establish his air of dominance, but it’s increasingly easy to stare him back down when your alpha sits right beside you.

There’s comfort in his presence, and your omega feeds on it.

“I saw you shoot. Got a good eye for those kinds of things, I’ll admit,” John nods. “And you did well in training. Followed Simon. His orders. Saw you clearin’ rooms like you’ve been on this team for years.” He grins, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Blue, but empty. “He was right. Fast learner. You know your place.” You narrow your eyes at that, and he hums. “But it doesn’t change what this is. What you are.”

You’re surprised at the way your omega curls in your gut. Angry. There’s an alpha insulting you, but this one isn’t yours. She warms your hands, and you dig your nails into your chair to keep her calm. She wants to bite, and she’s confident with Simon at her side.

“An asset?” You try talking instead.

“A liability.” John leans forward. “You put my men in danger. Going into heat like that.”

Your heart drops into your stomach. It’s alienation. You are an outsider. Not part of his pack. John draws a circle around himself, and you are not included in it, and the sentiment leaks into his words like a flood, and it hits you through the chest. Your lip trembles just slightly, but you swallow down the rejection, keeping it close. Your omega whimpers–an alpha, though it is not your own, is isolating you, and it hurts her.

“She didn’t–” Simon is interrupted by John’s laughter.

“You were off comms for 15 minutes and 37 seconds, an amount of time that during an op is fucking critical and could’ve blown the entire operation!” John snaps. “I told you to be fucking careful, I told you both to take precautions, and you failed me. I can understand you–” He points at you, and omega lingers unsaid, “but you, Simon? You–”

“It wasn’t his fault, it was mine,” you interrupt. “I should’ve known.”

“He’s your alpha, it’s his fuckin’ job,” John clarifies. “But Simon has more than one job, and on that day, it was keeping the target in his sight and waiting for my fuckin’ say.”

“Don’t reprimand him for making the call,” you tell him. “I’m the one who misread what I was feeling. I’m the one who distracted him from what he was doing. I’m the one who was projecting so badly, he had to help. It’s me. I screwed up. I’m just as much of your team as they are, so hold me accountable, not Simon.”

“You are not on my team, you are my problem.”

She wails. She grips your heart in both hands and hangs on, crying, wailing, begging you to say something to make him approve of you. She so desperately wants to be included in Simon’s pack, and it aches inside to be pushed away. You dig your nails in further, and you don’t realize how much your scent is flaring. Simon gets one whiff of it and snarls. His hands close into fists.

You goin’ to let tha’ wanker talk to your mate tha’ way? You goin’ to let another alpha walk all over her? He’s challenging you, tha’s wot this is, innit?

“Choose y’r next words wisely, Captain.” Simon finally speaks, and his tone rattles you. His voice dips low, and you can hear his alpha soaking into his words, and the bitterness in the air has to be him deciding whether or not today would be a good day to stand up to his captain.

“Tha’ right, Simon?” John murmurs. “Is that an order?”

Simon stands. Immediately, the humidity in the room expands, and you nearly choke from the sting of their scents in the air. Simon is much larger than John. He’s so much bigger, so much wider. You stand, too, and when Simon feels your hand along his bicep, his shoulders loosen just an inch.

Your omega may beg for approval and inclusion, but even she stands down when you remind her of the importance of pack bonds. You are not mated, and Simon has his own to keep, so you must appease. It hurts to do it, but you know you will thank yourself later.

“I’m sorry, Captain,” you say softly. “I-It won’t happen again. I swear…I promise.” Your eyes water, and you try to hold in the cough you’re holding. “First time…and the last time.”

Simon’s task force is a unique group. Four alphas–a lot of ego and fighting dominance in one bunch. It’s normally not done. They like to have a nice mix of betas and alphas to keep groups balanced, but Kate needed an exceptional group, so she built one. Four alphas in one pack is not common, but it works–and she has the stats to prove it.

You wonder if she knew what would happen when she threw you into the mix. How each of them might react when an omega tried to slip in between them. If Kyle would try to sink his teeth in. If Johnny would pass out from panting so fucking hard. If John would let his resolve slip for just long enough to blur the lines between a commanding officer and his subordinate.

Maybe Simon reacted just as she expected. That he would see what was meant just for him and pull her apart so he could slip under her ribs and stay right there. You have not been claimed, and yet–it is truth. They know it, Simon knows it, you know it, and so does your omega.

Simon paces in his room. A slow pace, but paces, and you observe him from your place on the bed as he breathes deeply. His alpha is leaking through the cracks, and you can smell his anger. It fumes, makes your nose curl. It’s a bitter scent. Your omega purrs in your chest–she wants to soothe him.

We will do no such thing. Shut the fuck up.

“You need to let me handle things when we get cornered like tha’.”

“I’m a big girl, Simon,” you say softly. “And it was my mistake.”

“It doesn’t fuckin’ matter,” Simon explains. “I’m your alpha.”

“I don’t care,” you shake your head. “You don’t speak for me.”

“No, I speak for us both,” Simon points a finger at you, coming closer. “For you and for me, and you need to understand tha’.”

You glare up at him. In all the time you’ve spent with him, he’s still letting his alpha bleed when he’s angry. You need to understand nothing–Simon needs to learn. He needs to learn that the omega they write about in textbooks isn’t reality. You fight your omega tooth and nail for control, and you are still on top for now. Simon needs to learn this. He needs to learn that you are not easily influenced by command. You may smell like an omega. You may keen like an omega.

But it’ll be a cold day in hell before I submit like an omega.

“Fuck you.”

Don’t talk like that…you know you want to.

“Ya already ‘ave, kitty,” Simon spits. “Would you like to go again?”

“I know this is hard for you to get through your thick head,” you whisper. “But just because I fucked you doesn’t mean anything. What happened between us was clinical. Your dick is medicine, and there was nothing I could do, and that is where this ends. You can tell yourself over and over again that you are my mate…that you’re my hero, that you saved me, but maybe next time, I’ll just let my omega kill me. The thought of you inside of me ever again makes me physically fucking sick.”

You’re a bad liar.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say lowly. He leans closer, until his face is nearly against yours. “You’re a pathetic, insecure, waste of space. I will never be your mate, and I pity every omega that might come after me, that has the unfortunate mistake of thinking you could claim them with any sense at all. You use and you abuse, and you have your head so far up your ass, I don’t think you know what’s real and what isn’t.”

Simon stares. You stare back. Your chest heaves, and so does his, and you keep your eyes on each other as you stare back and forth. His eyes are so dark. Beautiful, but so dark, it’s difficult to tell what he’s thinking. It’s not long that you notice his lashes fade to blonde at the end of them. His skin, where it bleeds from the eye-black he wears to the pale color of his face, has freckles scattered around the eyes. You can see the raised, white line of a scar that is just peeking from under the mask.

Isn’t he so pretty?

“On your knees,” Simon murmurs.

It’s whiplash. One moment, your entire body is buzzing. Angry, fiery–you can feel it shaking you. You hate him with ever fiber, want to smack the smug look you know he wears under that mask. You hate the power that he has over you and how much he relishes in it. The next moment, in a few slow words, it vanishes.

Like it was never even there at all.

“Excuse me?” You breathe.

“On your knees. Lose the pants. ‘n y’r knickers.”

“What makes you–”

“Won’t ask again.”

We need this. We need this. We need this.

It’s just that easy. For all the resolve that it feels like you have, maybe you really have none. You blink, but then he hears the sound of you toeing off your boots. They hit the floor, and then your cargos are falling on top of them, and then you’re turning over, sliding along the warm sheets of his bed until you’re lying on your tummy, ass up, and you’re closing your eyes as his gloved hands push your panties down your thighs until they’re around your knees.

You don’t really know who’s doing it. You’re afraid to think about it too hard, because you know that it just might be you.

He eats nasty. All tongue. He spreads your ass with big palms, and you gurgle when he kisses your folds with tongue. Your brain starts to fog, and you relax easily. He kisses soft and slow, but wet. You fist the blankets, pushing back, and he slides a thumb down to smooth over your puffy clit very gently. He hisses when he sees your hole flex in response, a drop of slick falling onto his palm.

“Kitty, why didn’t ya just say so?” Simon asks, stupid and fascinated by you. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted y’r pretty pussy kissed, hmm?”

“Because I hate you–” You whine, and Simon slips his tongue inside of you. You babble, your mouth dropping open, and he hums as he gets a taste of you before pulling back, smacking his lips. The taste of you spreads across his tongue, and his alpha howls. He’s never spoken to him this way, not really. The only time his alpha has ever really come to the forefront like this was the times he thought he was close to death; but Simon’s never been this close to life, either.

“I know,” he coos. “I know ya do. But this isn’t personal, is it?” He uses his thumbs to open you up, growling when he sees your hole pucker a little. A dribble of slick falls, and he catches it with his tongue, swallowing it down. “How’d ya put it, luv? ‘s medicine?”

“Your dick is medicine.”

“My mouth, too, I reckon.”

“Shut the fuck up, and eat me, baby,” you whimper, and he opens his mouth wide and licks with a thick tongue. He presses his mouth to your cunt and eats, bobbing his head as he alternates between slobbering licks and eager sucking. His tongue slides between your folds occasionally before slipping into you, and you curl your toes every time he brushes against your clit. His thumb will sometimes circle it, or his tongue will suck softly, but he never stays there too long. Simon likes to tease. He likes to make you a little desperate, likes to get you soft and drippy and dizzy, and then he gives in a little. He gives you two fingers, gloved still, and you push back against his face with gentle grinds as he fucks you softly with his hand. It’s agony and relief all at once.

“Like tha’?” He asks. He sounds amused. You hope his hard cock gets pinched by his zipper.

“Mmm–” You try. You arch your back, getting up onto your elbows, and Simon uses his free hand to give one side of your ass a nice smack, jiggling it gently before kissing where he hit. You giggle at that, soft and airy.

“Answer me, omega.”

“Fucking love it,” you gasp. “Big fingers–”

Simon laughs at that. You can smell his ego, but you don’t have it in you to say something smart. It’s true. Even with his hand, he fucks good, hitting deep. His mouth did wonders, and you’re dripping along his hand. His glove is soaked, and his forearm is wet, and when you glance down at the sheets, they are damp and dark with the mess you made. Simon doesn’t seem to mind. He leans in to eat more, pulling his fingers out so he can use his mouth again, tongue deep as he sucks and hinges that big jaw to get a mouthful of you and groan. You taste good–nice and sweet, thick juices wetting his chin, and he squeezes your ass in appreciation when you throw it back and smother him. He likes this. Likes the lack of air, the wet pussy, the soft whines. He’s content here, and he doesn’t seem like he wants to move anytime soon, and he doesn’t complain. He just opens his mouth and swirls and tongue and fuck–your clit is in his mouth, and you’re crying.

It’s too kind. An alpha kneeling for their mate. Taking pleasure in their pleasure. It’s not unheard of, but it’s…unorthodox. It confuses you. Your omega cries with happiness, but she’s confused, too. She doesn’t expect pleasure just for pleasure–but she wants it, she wants more of it, she’s digging her nails into your skin to try and get you to convince Simon to give you more, more, more.

“Give it to me,” Simon murmurs. “‘s olright. Give it to me.”

“Simon–”

“Mhm,” he nods, cocking his head and taking your clit into his mouth again. “Give it ‘ere.”

Your orgasm hits hard, but it’s nice and slow. Your thighs shake, but Simon sinks into you, breathing out through his nose as he delicately laps at your clit. He doesn’t stop, swallowing as you come into his mouth, keeping the pace to make sure your orgasm fizzles just as good as it hit you.

You sink to your tummy when he pulls away. Your knees give out, and he slips your panties completely off, and you flop onto the dry side of the bed. You start to cry. Not tears of relief, but tears of pain. Of what is inevitable. Of the hard truth that you loathe more than anything.

Simon can never force you. You will always want him, you think. There will always be something in the back of your mind that aches for him, and you try and you try and you try to fight it off, but you want him so viscerally, it cuts you deep where you’ll never notice it.

“Say wotever you want about me,” Simon mutters. “Tell yourself wotever you want that helps you sleep at night, hate me oll you want. But I take care of wot’s mine.” He strokes your hair out of your eyes, leaning down, and you cry harder. You clutch a pillow, hug it tight, and your eyes flutter open as you look at him. His mask is still hiked up just under his nose, and you can see half his face. Scars that cut across him like paintbrush strokes, adding texture and depth where there shouldn’t be.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” you whisper. “You have no idea what it’s like for every single part of yourself to betray what you want. You don’t get it. Y-You don’t understand, you never will. You will always have the upper hand, and y-you will never know what it’s like to not have a choice.”

Simon continues to brush through your hair with his fingers. Soothing you gently, coaxing you into a headspace that feels like white noise. You whine, and Simon comes closer. He presses his mouth to your forehead, soft, gentle, his scent close enough that your beating heart slows down considerably just in response.

“No, I won’t,” Simon agrees. “But that’s what you are. You’re an omega.”

He says it like it’s so simple. Like it explains everything in the entire world. Being an omega is the simplest answer he could ever give, and it explains every variable, every nuance, every quirk that makes you you. It explains every time you sink to your knees for him. It explains how easily you let him fuck you on a rooftop in a foreign country. It explains how even though you hate him with every fiber of your being, there is somehow no one else you want standing over you now.

“I’m still me.”

“No,” Simon shakes his head. “You cannot change wot you are. You’re fighting her, and you will lose.”

You wonder, for just a second, if Simon is speaking from experience. Have there been times when his alpha takes over? Does it take control? Are there times when he looks in the mirror, too, and doesn’t know who is staring back?

“I hate her, too,” you spit. “I hate her, and I hate you.”

There’s a hint of a smile on his terrible face. The first one you’ve ever seen. You hate the urge you have to lean forward and kiss it.

“She is you.”

“Then I hate me. I hate myself.”

Simon changes the sheets silently. He picks you up and moves you when he has to–two big, burly arms picking you up like you’re a feather. You cling to his neck, studying him, and you find yourself not being able to look away. He’s so capable. He’s so independent. He’s so reactive to your needs, it infuriates you, how could one man be so in tune with you, more than yourself?

He drapes all new blankets over you. He turns out most of the lights, except for the low glow of the yellow lamp on his desk. He tucks you in, making sure you’re warm, and then he bends down to say something to you, in your ear.

“Dunno wot you think,” he tells you, “but there will be no omega after you.” His voice drops low, and when you close your eyes, you hear his alpha. Threatening, affirmative, exact. “You are mine. I’ll not ‘ave another. The sooner you accept tha’, the easier things’ll be for you.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Eat a dick.”

Mine, mine, mine–

“Much prefer y’r cunt, kitty.”

Simon’s protection is instinctual. It’s not really a choice, it’s subconscious. He watches you braid your hair in your room, observes as you tuck it behind your ears and tie it off your face. He hovers as you gear up. Watches you buckle your belt, strap your tact vest, adjust your helmet. He comes over after you’ve laced your boots, tugging on your vest to make sure it’s secure and fastening your helmet for you. You let him as you clip your watch on, closing your eyes as he smooths a thumb across your cheek and turns you towards the door.

It’s a long flight. You fall asleep, your face smushed against his arm, and when you wake up, Simon is still sitting there, hands on his knees, staring straight ahead. John smokes, Gaz has a folded up little book in his hand with what seems like sudoku pages, and Johnny is twirling what looks like a fidget spinner in one hand. You blink awake, but it’s dark out, pitch-black.

That’s the job. Dark, where you can use night as cover. Stealth. You and Simon have been tasked with clearing out one building on your own. Several stories, possible targets inside, presumed armed and dangerous. You were given the clear to eliminate any threats on sight–the op is capture or kill, and John made that very clear in a small room that reeked of his authority.

The bird drops you a few kilometers from where your target building lies. You flip the night-vision down, flicking it on, and you stick to Simon like glue as you follow him silently through empty streets. You’re somewhere in Eastern Europe, somewhere cold and unfeeling and just on the border of Russia. You aren’t privy to any more details; all you know is that your mission is to be Simon’s cover, and you have the face of your target memorized and burned into the back of your eyes.

You spot your target building at the end of the block. The streetlight flickers, and it looks like a low-income apartment building. It’s very small, dilapidated, with a peeling entrance door that has the window broken, hastily patched up with duct tape. It’s no trouble for Simon to stick the scope of his rifle through the duct table and shred the remaining glass to pieces, putting his hand through the window and unlocking the door easily.

The first few floors are clear. Simon always enters a room first, with you in quick succession. You are silent, touch and go, soft taps on shoulders that the both of you can read immediately. You’re in tune with him. When he steps left, so do you. When he turns, you cover, when he sweeps up, you sweep down. It’s a dance, a very well coordinated one, and it lets Simon breathe easier when he realizes how well you’ve adapted to each other over a short period of time.

Just a few weeks, and you are two sides of each other.

Simon swallows down the prideful purr in his chest. Now isn’t the time to get distracted.

When you make your way to the top floor, just below the roof, your chest starts to feel warm. You pause at the top of the stairs as Simon keeps his rifle trained at the first door in front of him. You swallow hard, widening your stance to keep yourself upright. You shake your head, trying to toss the jitters off of you. Your throat hurts as the saliva goes down.

Simon clears the room with you shuffling close behind. You blink rapidly when you see two of Simon, and he whips around suddenly. You can see him through your night vision stiffening in front of you. Shoulders tensing, fingers gripping his rifle tighter. You pause as he comes close to you, and your eyes water when he lifts one hand from his gun to cup your face gently.

You know what he’s asking. You nod shakily, and he taps his wrist with two fingers.

Give me two minutes, is what he’s saying to you.

You don’t get two minutes.

The door behind you slams open. Two men breach inside, and they come at you with a force too strong, and you go flying towards the far wall. Your back hits it hard, and you collapse onto the ground. Your whole body aches, and you know there will an array of nasty bruises under the skin. Your helmet took the brunt of the hit, but you still feel dizzy as it falls off your head, clattering to the ground. You cough, scrambling for your rifle that is a few feet away from you now, and Simon drops one of them with a few easy bullets, but the second man uses his dead companion as cover, throwing the body at Simon until he can lunge at him.

Simon swipes the blade out of his boot and goes for his weak spots. He manages to get him under the arm, across his thigh, but Simon is wearing a lot of gear, and with the weight of a dead alpha getting tossed at him again, he gets moved backwards enough to lose his footing, and then it happens.

The man’s gun fires, and it goes straight for Simon’s head. A flash of light that seals some sick sort of fate that you know can’t be yours. It’s not you that screams in response.

It is your omega.

You launch yourself at him. In your daze, your omega finds clarity, and she seizes her moment. You slip the blade out of its place in your thigh holster, and you toss a nearby chair at him to incapacitate his gun. It gets trapped underneath it, enough time for you to jump and land on him from behind.

He’s an alpha. Physically, you should be no match for him given your size differences, but something else is taking over. Your nails don’t just grab, they pierce his skin. Digging it, shredding flesh, and you bring your blade down over and over again against his chest. He screams in pain, trying to wriggle you off. You lock your ankles around his middle, keeping your hand coming, tearing with your nails and slicing with your knife, but he manages to get an arm underneath you and throw you off.

You hit the ground again roughly, but it doesn’t stop your omega. She gets right back up, but he tackles you. He uses his weight to pin you down, and the knife rings as it slides across the room, but your omega doesn’t let it stop her. He got too close, and she will make sure he regrets it.

He went for your mate, and she cannot have that. She won’t survive without him. Unclaimed, but she doesn’t care–Simon is hers, and she won’t let him go without something all-encompassing and violent. He’ll have to pry Simon out of her dead hands. You feel like you’re watching from the sidelines. You’re not yourself. It’s the first time that you don’t really care.

You scream, leaning up, and he doesn’t get a moment to think before you sink your teeth into the plush of his scent gland and rip it clean out.

Fuck. There’s blood gushing everywhere, spurting from where you’ve severed the gland. The gland is precious, anatomically–it provides most of the oxygen to the brain, and it’s what seals the bond. While it can’t be marked the same way an omega’s can, an alpha can’t survive without it. You’re finding out just how precious it is as you watch an alpha cough and sputter once he realizes what’s happening to him.

He crawls off of you, trying to use his hand to put pressure to his neck, but it’s no use. He leans against the wall and chokes, blood filling his mouth, and you spit out the flesh from between your teeth as you watch him gurgle and kick his feet out. He reaches out for you, pleading in his eyes, but you feel no mercy. There’s tears coming down his face now, and you watch with a scowl as the blood spills between his fingers instead of bringing his brain precious life.

Good fucking riddance.

You turn over once you’re satisfied he won’t get up. You see Simon still sprawled on his back behind you, and you scramble to get to him. You grab his helmet and throw it off, and you start to cry, feeling around and realizing there’s something sticky oozing and pooling onto your fingers. You can’t see very well in the dark, but you put pressure anyways, unsure of what you’re dealing with. Your heartbeat is loud, and it echoes in your ears.

“No–No!” You gasp. You grab Simon’s radio, hands shaking as you press down onto the button.

“Bravo-6, d-do you c-copy?” You cry. “Bravo-6, answer–please–”

“Kit?” John’s voice comes out surprised, low. “What happened?”

“Si–Ghost–” You sob, “W-We need a medevac! Medevac–top floor–”

Your hands continue to shake as you reach for the bottom of his mask and rip it off. It’s the first time you’ve seen him without the mask, but you need to know. You need to know.

His face–it is a little ugly. The eye-black is smeared across his freckles, bleeding across his face from the sweat. He has scars everywhere; they criss-cross along his cheek, cut his lips, but you ignore that as you lean down and put your ear to his mouth.

His breaths come shallow and slow.

You cry with relief, feeling around with your fingers. When all you feel is blood, you pick up his helmet and cry harder when you notice the side of the helmet has been grazed, and the bullet casing lies near his head.

He had missed.

He missed.

You cup his face, tapping his cheeks gently, trying to wake him up.

“Simon?” You whisper, sniffling. “Simon, wake up. Please wake up. Please–”

You can’t carry him. Even if you tried to get your omega to help you, you aren’t physically strong enough to pick him up and carry him out. He’s too big and too heavy, and you wouldn’t be useful anyways; you’d be without cover trying to haul his ass to a bird that’s just too far away.

“Simon–”

He coughs. You gasp, wrapping an arm under him and trying to sit him up. He’s so much heavier with all of his gear on, but you do it anyways, lifting him up and laying his head in your lap. You lean down, pressing your forehead to his, and you cup the back of his neck.

“I thought he killed you–” You sob. Simon hums, his eyes opening and closing, and you smooth a few fingers down his cheek, relieved to hear him breathe. In and out, in and out, low and slow as he blinks away the spots in his vision.

Your eyes meet. It’s not a look you were expecting. You expected him to be angry, but he’s not. He’s looking at you like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. You must look a sight, you think. There must be blood on your face, staining your teeth, but all of your senses are dulled as you try and read him.

Your hands shake as you brush a bit of dust off his face. Your fingers are trembling, but it’s grounding to touch him and see him blink those dark eyes up at you. God, he’s not ugly, no, he’s gorgeous. He’s so beautiful. He’ll never be prettier than the way he is now. Raw and vulnerable–Simon is most himself here, you think, stuck in the in-between of an operation. This is where he must feel everything the most. You open your mouth to say something else, to ask him if he’s okay, but then his face scrunches when he finally realizes where you are.

“On the door,” Simon mutters. “Get y’r gun on the fuckin’ door.”

“Simon–”

“Now!”

You scramble to reach for the handgun in your thigh holster, turning to get up on your knees and cover the door. You will your hands to stop shaking, gripping the handle of the gun tight to keep them steady. You can hear Simon getting himself together behind you. Shuffling onto his feet, picking up his rifle and his helmet. When you look over your shoulder for just a second, you notice his mask is back on.

“Bravo-7 to Bravo-6, east building clear,” Simon rasps. He shoves his way past you, rattling you a little, and you stare at his back, defeated, as he clears the rest of the floor before making his way up the last flight of stairs. You hear your captain responding on comms, but you’re not paying enough attention. Simon slams the roof door shut once its behind you, and you wipe your eyes as Simon gets situated for overwatch as you cover the door.

“Simon, are you–”

“I don’t want to hear another word outta you unless we got contact on this fuckin’ roof,” Simon interrupts.

“I saved your ass!” You cry. “I did that! He would’ve killed you, you fucking asshole, so for once in your life, can you just look at me and say a fucking thank you?!”

Maybe Simon’s right. If you fight your omega, maybe you will lose. She might just kill you. You know she can. You’ve seen it happen before. Omegas that didn’t listen, losing themselves to the insanity of their inner struggle. It’s a violent end. It’s like they electrocute from the inside-out. Their minds betray them, and they let it take over, and with no alpha to soothe them, they’re just gone. If they drift too far, you can’t get yourself back.

Use me. I know what to do. I can get him back.

You do the only other thing you can try; you let your omega do the talking. The sweet, syrupy voice. The soft lilt. The edge that glides, doesn’t cut, the one that will hit his ear just right and hopefully get his alpha tick-tick-ticking inside of his head. The one that didn’t work on Kate–but Kate was not your mate. Kate never responded to you at all, not the way Simon does, and Kate has never tasted your cunt. Her alpha doesn’t know what she’s missing.

I can do it. Let me in.

“Please, Simon,” you beg. You see his fingers twitch as he adjusts the scope on his rifle. They falter, adjusting it just a few degrees too far. Simon doesn’t make mistakes, but then again he’s never had his omega purring in his ear like that. “Please.”

You make your way to him, curling a hand around his bicep. You tug him closer, trying to get him to look at you. He resists, but it’s a pathetic kind of resistance. The kind that you can overpower with just another firm tug. You can sense it, his hesitance, and your omega giggles in your head.

I have him. I can do it. Don’t worry.

“John was right,” Simon breathes. “You’re a problem. A liability.”

A liability because he doesn’t belong to anyone but you, maybe. He’s John’s liability. Not yours. Simon may be a part of their pack, but they should’ve picked up a fucking book when they knew you were coming. Submissiveness might be an inherent “trait” of your kind, but you realize now that is just a lie that alphas tell omegas to keep them quiet.

To keep them soft. To keep them begging. It’s probably something that your kind have learned over time, so distinct that you inherit it from someone that came before you, but you’re convinced that this kind of obedience and docility can be unlearned. It can be used.

If an omega cries, it would be stupid for an alpha to ignore it. It’s in their DNA–with just a soft whine, you can make Simon drop that rifle and bend you over any surface. They say it is for your sake. They say it is because omegas must be serviced or else they will succumb to themselves, but that isn’t what this is, and that’s not why omegas aren’t allowed in the field.

They’re not allowed because you can make Simon defy orders; because John can tell Simon something, and you can tell him something else, and you’re almost certain you know which way Simon will lean.

“Please just look at me, Simon,” you whisper. “Please.”

You cradle his face when he finally does. Your palms touch his wet mask, likely soaked with his own blood. You stand on your toes and draw his face closer to yours.

Fuck them for making you feel small. Fuck them for making you feel less than. Fuck anyone that ever made you feel like you were anything but in control, including her. If she just explained what she could do, this could’ve been a lot easier. If she just told you what she was capable of, you could’ve worked together. You could’ve given her what she wanted, and she could’ve given you what you wanted, and it could’ve been so much simpler.

“Gonna get me fuckin’ killed,” Simon growls. You start to cry again. Not because what he’s saying hurts you, but because he’s still bleeding, and all you can see when you close your eyes is that gun firing right at his head.

This is your ticket. This is your way out. Fuck Kate for making you believe that all you were meant for was being in his bed. You’re so close–aren’t you? You didn’t realize how close you were, but now you do, and you know exactly what to do.

You’re going to make them very, very sorry. You’re going to make them regret ever letting you inside. Your divisive, spitfire nature was not your line of defense. It was the indication of the future you always dreamed of, the future that is one bite-mark away from being tangible. You can taste it, like you taste what Simon wants in the air.

I can do it. I can help you. Let me in.

There was never a reason to be afraid. If anything, they should’ve been afraid of you.

You kiss him. It’s not a proper kiss, because his face is still covered, but you kiss Simon anyways. His cheeks warm, and his lips part, and you kiss him softly over and over as you take his face into your hands. When his arm slides around your waist, your omega is comfortable letting your knees buckle.

She knows already that Simon will catch you.

NEXT

[luna-azzurra]

How to Write a Death Scene

So, you want to write a death scene that hits your readers hard, right? Something that sticks with them, makes them feel something real?

First, give the death meaning. You can’t just toss in a death for the shock factor and call it a day. Even if it’s sudden or unexpected, the death has to matter to the story. Think about how it changes things for the characters who survive. Does it mess with their relationships? Their goals? Make sure this moment sends ripples through the rest of your plot. It’s gotta affect everything that happens after, like an emotional earthquake.

Then, think about timing. You don’t want to drop a death scene at the wrong moment and ruin the vibe. If it’s part of a big heroic moment or a heartbreaking loss in the middle of the story, it should feel earned. The timing of the death decides how your readers will react, whether they feel relief, gut-wrenching sorrow, or are totally blindsided. The right moment makes all the difference.

Next up, focus on the characters’ emotions. Here’s the thing, it's not always the actual death that makes a reader cry, it's how everyone feels about it. How do the characters react? Is the person dying scared, or are they at peace? Are the people around them in shock, angry, or just completely destroyed? You need to dive deep into these emotions, because that’s where your reader connects.

Make sure to use sensory details to pull readers into the scene. What does it feel like? The sound of their breathing, the stillness when they’re gone, the way everything feels heavy and wrong. Little details make the death feel real and personal, like the reader is right there with the characters, feeling the weight of the moment.

If your character has the chance, give them some final words or actions. What they say or do in those last seconds can really hit hard. Maybe they share a piece of advice, ask for forgiveness, or try to comfort the people around them. Even a simple gesture, a smile, a touch, a last look can leave a lasting impression. This is your last chance to show who this character was, so make it count.

Finally, don’t just stop when the character dies. The aftermath is just as important. How do the survivors deal with it? Does your main character fall apart, or do they find a new sense of purpose? Are there regrets? Peace? Whatever happens next should be shaped by the death, like a shadow that never quite goes away. Let your characters carry that weight as they move forward.

[titsthedamnseason]

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