#like every time I see her I get a violent rush of desire to imitate her

[museenkuss]

wait why don’t you like lily rose? idc im just curious all i know about her is that she was in that Idol show that got panned

To be perfectly honest, I’m just sickeningly jealous. I wish I was a 25 year old rich girl that was so emaciated that she could get away with dressing like a toddler. She’s pure ED fodder and she’s been gleefully acting the part for years now. I remember the brief moment where she was at a normal weight, but now we’re back in “body so skinny that the head looks twice as big as it should be” territory. So I avoid her best as I can.

Maybe once I’m healed from that I’ll just dislike her style and posing. I’ve seldom seen her look good, to make it short (and I’ve spent hours looking at her and her outfits). Her outfits (unless the red carpet people dress her of course) are usually a hot mess (to put it nicely) and I always get the feeling that she dresses like that to underline the fact that her good looks and skinny body will carry the look for her. It’s that “pretty girl dressing ugly” phenomenon. And if I have to see her weird Donald Duck “tits out ass out arched back stiff legs” pose one more time… girl how are you not embarrassed. Her whole thing is giving “kindergarten child who picks up random items on their dressing room floor, but sexy”. That would annoy me even if I wasn’t otherwise affected. But by the time that happens, she might’ve grown up. Here’s to hoping.

[matronoftheblackrose]

C sees C

Zayne clicked his tongue as he checked his watch. The waning rays of the sun and the dimming of Piltover coincided with every second ticking closer to 6:00 PM. Corina asked all of her employees to work two hours longer this day, and the Piltover Enforcers needed to be given their signal. Zayne looked left, then right as he walked outside of the blooming factory. Past the greenery and the foliage, he took a step outside where a rat scurried across his boot. If he was as soft as a Piltvan then maybe he would have jumped in shock but nah, Zayne was used to far worse conditions than a greenhouse and mice.

Zayne rolled his left sleeve back, exposing his metallic cybernetic limb. He had to blink and squint from the sudden ray that reflected into his eyes, and in that moment, he swore something darted past him. Zayne looked behind him to find- nothing there. Other than the artificial lights of the greenhouse humming with energy and the vats of fertilizer being pumped throughout the complex. With a shake of his head, Zayne refocused on his tasks at hand.

With a twitch of his thumb, Zayne’s hextech crystal clicked to life in his ear.

“Rat to Dog? The big C remains. Mice scurrying to alternate corners in 10.”

A harsh buzz was followed by, “Roger. Begin in 10.”

Zayne clicked his thumb again, let out a sigh of relief, and looked all about to make sure no one was around. He could swear there was something just, in the corner of his eye, but no matter what, no matter how he looked, Zayne saw nothing. Even when his goggles locked on, zoomed in and identified the spewed remains of a liquid in a nearby alleyway to most likely be vomit.

With another sigh of relief, Zayne clicked his thumb again. “Sheriff? 10 until the War Storm. Do as you will.”

A smooth, soft click was followed by, “Thank you. In and out in-”

A hand came over Zayne’s mouth. Something pressed into the base of Zayne’s spine, and another hand picked the earpiece out, and in Zayne’s voice, the presence said, “Sorry, you need to wait 5. Guard schedule changed. I’ll tell the En’s storm to hold for another 10, else you’ll lose your chance.”

Zayne wanted to react in some way, but he felt his body go utterly limp- whatever martial arts this was, Zayne could not lift a limb. He also knew that the hand wrapped around his mouth certainly looked human, but was anything but. The way the fingers bent were not like a human’s, to be able to wrap so perfectly around his face to mute him completely and allow Zayne to breathe only through his nose.

A pause. “Are you sure?” the headpiece asked.

“Yes, Sheriff. Positive.”

Another pause. “We can’t miss this chance to lose C. Are. You. Sure.”

In that instant, Zayne knew that this person was toying with him. The hand flexed ever so slightly, straining Zayne’s jaw. He could feel his bones bend, and if the hand bothered to clench, Zayne knew it could crush his entire skull with pathetic ease.

“Ten thousand percent, and three quarters, Sheriff. Trust me, Sheriff.”

Zayne’s eyes went wide. How the hell did this ‘guy’ know Zayne’s dumb joke?

“Alright. 10 it is” The comm line went dead.

The presence asked, in Zayne’s voice, “May you please call your Wardens? I wish to ask them to arrive in another 10.”

Zayne’s mind raced, but his thoughts turned to pain as the hand on his jaw squeezed again.

“I honestly would love playing with you a little more, seeing how you are actually aiding my Sheriff, but I have business to attend to and we’re in a rush. I do not like violence, but today is a very personal day for me and I simply cannot be late,” the presence continued. “Do as I say, and no one gets so much as scratched. I promise you."

The hand released Zayne’s mouth, giving him the chance to spit back, “And how can I trust you?”

The presence turned Zayne around, and as Zayne’s turned paler than death, under the dimming rays of Piltover’s sun, the presence simply asked, “Do you have a choice?

---

Corina caressed the petals of her wolf’s bane flower that was exposed to an open window and to the sun, fully knowing that so very soon, the Enforcers will be arriving and her master plan could be enacted. It took some time, oh yes, but a single stroke would remove those pesky officers with ease, and then she could bring forth into Piltover-

“Miss Corina? Ma’am? May I have a word with you?” Zayne asked.

Corina turned around, her metallic nails clicking. The hum of electrical lights above flickered, Zayne with his hands in his pockets, standing between two rows of planted Noxian oleander. Corina smiled at him and beckoned him to her.

“Yes, Zayne. You may approach,” Corina cooed. “What is it you wish to discuss?”

“Well, a coupla things,” Zayne admitted as he walked forward. His right hand came up and caressed the poisonous petals of the flowers. “First and foremost, guess you know what I’m doing here, huh?”

Corina’s fingers clicked. She could feel the toxins from her suit’s canisters course through the tubes and fill the chamber of her fingertips. “No, do tell, what are you doing here?”

Zayne smirked and waved Corina off. “Playing coy? Come now.” His voice changed almost entirely- now slightly higher pitched but far more relaxed, with just a slight Demacian accent as he twirled and skipped underneath the flickering lights. “I know you’re pretending to be ‘C’, Corina. No reason to play games with me.”

Corina blinked, unsure of what just happened. “Pardon?”

“I said there’s no reason to play games with me. If this were a game and I were playing chess or some other alternate ‘intelligent’ game, you’d be playing connect four and failing to count to three,” Zayne continued with a chuckle. He threw his right hand out and batted one of the more annoying oleanders out of his way.

Corina realized just then that not only were Zayne’s mannerisms off, but the fact that he was touching Noxian oleander that she genetically bred herself, and did not react with violent itching or wheezing, or collapsing to the ground in paralyzed agony, was slightly off. “You’re not Zayne, are you?”

“And you have managed to count to two! Your intellect shocks me!” Zayne laughed. 

Corina collected herself, furrowed her brow and pointed a finger at Zayne. “Do watch your tongue, cur. You may have caught me off guard at first, but please, do you know who you are talking to?”

Zayne snorted and raised his right hand up in mock apology. “You are correct. Please forgive me, Corina Veraza the Chembaron- my deeper apologies, I mean Corina, the Mastermind of Chembarons and Zaunites.”

“Thank you. Now, what do you want?”

“Back to 1, huh? You ask questions but not the right questions.” The light flickered, Zayne’s goggles reflecting the light every little which way in the dimming room. “Let me answer your question with a question: What do you think I am here for?”

“If you were Zayne, then to raid my cultivair with Piltover’s Wardens and that daft Caitlyn. But you are not, so- honestly, you can be here to make a deal with me or to kill me. The former being far more plausible than the latter.”

Zayne clenched his jaw, took in a deep breath, and responded, “I’m sorry to say but the former is far less likely than the latter at this rate. And the latter I would daresay, is not something ‘up’ in my priority list. No, I’m here to take back what is mine, and to take something so very dear of yours.”

Corina raised an eyebrow. “Oh yes, you are here to take my magnum opus? Please, as though I would let you. I have investors that are interested in it, and if you wanted it so badly, we could have negotiated a price at a better time than this. Is that all?”

“Your magnum opus? Which one?” Zayne pointed behind him just as the electricity shut off for nearly a full two seconds. When it flicked back on, Zayne’s smile was just an inch too wide- a few teeth too many. “Your ‘magnum opus’ in your office? A glorified weed according to your own documents that would cause severe bodily waste leakage if consumed, a so very crude joke for a crude mind. No, no no. I am here to take back my reputation, and to take Meiraxa.”

Corina’s body went cold. Her actual magnum opus, the one that could in fact eliminate the Zaun Grey, named after her sister, a fact no one alive should know. Corina brought her hands up and was about to unleash her full fury when she took a moment, thought, and smiled. “Since you know so much about me, may I ask who I am speaking to the corpse that will be fed to my children?”

Zayne snapped his fingers, brought out his left, very human arm, and clapped at Corina. “Excellent! You counted back to two! Bravo!”

Corina’s rage cracked her stoic mask, but she said nothing.

Zayne continued to speak, this time in Corina’s exact voice, “You finally did your best to recognize an ant’s existence! Have you finally noticed how damn quiet it is in here? Your guards went home. Have you been too distracted to see the time? I changed it when you weren’t looking so you wouldn’t be ‘panicked’ about being time efficient. Who am I?”

Zayne pointed at himself, bowed, and said in Zayne’s voice, Corina’s voice, that Demacian voice, and a multitude of other voices in horrifying unison, “I am C. The C. You took what is mine, and so I will take that back and more.”

Corina paled.

“You took my moniker because you thought it’d be easy to lead Caitlyn here into a trap, kill all of the wardens in a single stroke, and have more freedom to pursue your stupid, selfish desires in Piltover like the so very good ecologist you are,” C continued. He laughed and wagged a finger at Corina, speaking in his Demacian voice again, “Which, I could appreciate! Imitation is the purest form of flattery-”

Corina clicked a button on her palm, and the bed of oleanders nearest to C exploded, sending wood splinters and plant matter everywhere. The detonation was small and controlled, but it was more than enough to utterly annihilate a human at point blank range. The lights flickered, the smoke parted, and Corina stumbled backwards, eyes wide with fear and disgust.

Flesh slurped, skin ripped, bones creaked and cracked, and Zayne reformed in front of Corina under the strobing light of failing electricity above. He cracked his head to realign it, which made each vertebrae of his spine crack one after the other like a macabre xylophone.

“C the Mastermind, your genius plan is to blow up people. I truly envy the stupid, you have such easy expectations to meet for yourself,” C muttered, rolling his eyes. “As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, imitation is the purest form of flattery, but you tried to take my credit, for my acts. Imitation is one thing, plagiarizing is an outright insult.”

“How are you alive?”

“By continued breathing, I thought they taught you that in school. No matter,” C waved Corina off. “So, before you get any more bright ideas, please do not try to kill me again, and do listen to me. When the Wardens come, I want you to give them a note, and to tell them you are not the real C, absolving you of my crimes.”

Before Corina’s fingers could twitch, Zayne’s arm lashed out, splitting apart at the seams with sickening, wet slurps, and with serrated fangs, wrapped around Corina’s hand. Corina felt no pain, but saw the severed pipe that fed the toxic ammunition into her weapon flop about on the ground.

“Please pay attention, you have only 2 minutes and twenty seven seconds left before your bombs go off.”

“I haven’t se-” Corina started, then felt one of her fingers break and something slip into her palm as the rest of her fingers were forced to wrap themselves around it. Corina bit her lip to stifle the pain as best as she could. Years of scarring from science experiments gave her an excellent tolerance of pain.

“I apologize for the brutishness but you just do not shut up. I programmed your bombs to go off on a timer rather than by your kill switch. I had to give you the one bomb to see if you were truly stupid enough to try and kill me,” C crowed. He reached into his chest, pulled out a sheet of paper and a pen from his literal ribcage that parted and gave him access to his empty body cavity, and placed it on the ground in front of him. “On your knees, write down your apology and to absolve yourself of the title of C, and we’re done here. The longer you take, the more likely this won’t end well for you.”

“On my knees? Like some common whore? Do you think-?”

“A common whore has more sense than you, a common idiot,” C shot back. “In one day I have undone your idiotic master plan and taken even your Merixia under your nose. The only contest here that is left is the contest of patience, and I am admittedly close to losing that one.”

Corina had enough. She had enough toxin in her fingers, and she knew that he could not break all of them in time to stop her from enacting another one of her kill switches. Corina pressed a button that would cause a canister on her suit to fire forward and cover C with a flesh eating toxin, only to have it shot mid-flight and shattered before it could cause anyone any harm.

Both C and Corina looked up overhead at a window, and there was Sheriff Caitlyn, looking down her sights, aiming her rifle at both of them.

C blinked. Utterly distracted by this, Corina ripped her arm free and ran away from him as Caitlyn called out.

“C and Corina, surrender yourselves and you will not be harmed,” Caitlyn called out. “You have one chance- surrender peacefully!”

Corina stumbled away, gasping and wheezing, her arm shuddering.

C looked up, smiling and laughing. “She came. She actually came. Do you see this, Corina? Caitlyn recognized me. I thought she had gotten rusty. I am glad I did not have to escalate, but how did she figure it out? Ah, wait, Zayne never says positive. It’s Zaunite slang he uses, or a two syllable word for his small mind. Nor does he ask to trust him like that. It’s trust me, followed by some animal metaphor, like a whump on a shroom hunt. It slipped my mind. I can’t believe it, without her, it slipped-”

The bombs went off. Ripping through the factory, Caitlyn caught sight of C laughing as he slipped into the fiery green hell while Corina ran the other direction. Caitlyn had to slide down from the window to avoid the explosion of glass shards, cursing under her breath. So close to get two birds with one stone. She knew that Corina posing as C would get him to surface, his ego could not take imposters. Though Caitlyn may not have caught C, the wealth of information gathered from this one event alone was almost worth the loss. And while C will resurface, Corina would not if she got away now. So close to her target, but Caitlyn took a moment to look down the alleyway to make sure the knocked out Zayne was peacefully sleeping, and saw the lights of the Wardens’ vehicles speeding on their way.

If C had not changed the time for the Wardens’ arrival, this evening would have been absolutely catastrophic. The death toll would have been in the dozens for their officers, both good and bad. Caitlyn had wanted to capture Corina before the Wardens arrived, but it seemed that C had alternate plans in mind. The only reason she was delayed was because Zayne had to be found first, taken care of and supervised. Thankfully, backup for Caitlyn had arrived in time as well.

In fact, about backup, as Caitlyn circled around to the back of Corina’s factory, she soon heard an all too familiar voice yell, “Boom! In the face!” followed by a a shriek of surprise and a loud thud.

Caitlyn came across Vi hoisting of Corina onto her shoulder, Corina who was handcuffed and limp.

“Vi, you did not strike her, did you?” Caitlyn asked.

“Nah. I was going to but she just fell forward and passed out at my awesome sight.” Vi gave Corina’s shoulder a little pat as she continued, “Who knew this wallflower back at hq was C, huh?”

“That would be because she’s not C,” Caitlyn answered. “C was in the factory.”

“Wait- really?” Vi looked back at the now violently on fire, emitting smoke clouds of a variety of chemicals, factory. “Well shit. Guess he’s dead.”

“I highly doubt it. C has escaped worse. But now to find his next target-”

Caitlyn stopped herself. She bent down in front of Corina, looked down at the criminal’s hand curled into a fist, saw the purple and white pollen that stained Corina’s skin, and Caitlyn’s eyes dilated.

“Vi, drop her right now.”

Vi did not question Caitlyn, but she did not drop Corina.

“Vi?”

“Uh...Caitlyn...” Vi’s voice lowered, she whimpered, “I- I can’t- move.”

“Noxian oleander poisoning. Who knows what Corina did to it to make it work this fast. Damn it.” Caitlyn had to take a gamble.

As Caitlyn put on a pair of surgical gloves from her satchel her mind raced. This was an interaction between C and Corina. Corina was destructive, C was not for the most part, despite the contorted expression of absolute fear that remained on Corina’s face.

Caitlyn did not know the full extent of that meeting, but knew the pair exchanged some combat, or at least an explosion, but she needed to trust her read of C’s psychology. Caitlyn reached over to unfurl Corina’s fist by trying to pull free a finger. Caitlyn’s hand brushed against Corina’s thumb and immediately noticed the digit was tightened into an iron grip. However, Corina’s fore finger was broken and loose. This meant that though it hurt Corina, Caitlyn could pull the finger free from the stiffening grip and reveal a single vial stuffed in Corina’s palm.

As Caitlyn pulled the vial free, a note wrapped around the glass fluttered to the ground. Her eyes scanned it quickly, the message was short, but the weight of its words struck her like a ton of lead. Caitlyn uncorked the vial, gave it a quick sniff before she took out a spray cap from her satchel, jury-rigged it to fit on the vial with some tape, and sprayed Vi’s arm down.

Vi’s arm slowly, and with great effort, lowered.

“A solution of 90% rubbing alcohol, with a bit of soap and water, to at least remove the pollen and the urushiol oils of the oleander. We’ll have to have the doctor look you over, but this should help for now,“ Caitlyn explained.

Vi actually laughed and gave Caitlyn’s shoulder a soft, knuckled tap with her good arm. “Crap, Cait, you really have a gadget for everything, huh? Thanks.”

Caitlyn smiled, but did not answer.

That note on the floor, that read, “The only time I will give instead of take, a gift from one old friend to another. Hope to see you soon. -C” was a promise Caitlyn knew C would keep. Yet, Caitlyn could not help but notice that C’s methods were escalating. There were no casualties this time, but would there be next time? Even an accidental one? How did C know that Corina would escape the factory if she was doused with a potent enough oleander that it caused nearly instant paralysis in Vi?

The game was afoot once more, and more dangerous than ever.

[deberiaestarescribiendo]

Saint Jude's Miracle: A Javier Peña x OFC (Isa) Fanfiction. Chapter V

Summary: Isabel resorts to a higher power to try and protect Javi in his journey and she recalls a very special day years ago in Laredo.

Warning: Nothing I think (brief mention of sex but nothing explicit)

A/N: This is a smaller chapter compared to the recent ones and it feels like a small pause between the first part of this story and Javi’s journey after he leaves that will come in later chapters, and also the reason behind the series name. Sorry for any mistake, bad grammar and misspellings, thank you for your feedback :)

Masterlist

Chapter IV

Chapter V: A lost cause

His weight over her and his soft breathing on her nape makes Isa smile before she opens her eyes. But that annoying voice she cannot shut reminds her that he’s leaving. His arm is over her waist the two of them cuddling in the small space of Javi’s old room bed. The room hasn’t been touch since he left Laredo, he still has some small details of his past self before he went away and changed to the man that’s pressed against her back. She places her hand over his watching their golden rings.

She remembers his shy kiss at the wedding, he had never kissed her like that even when they were just starting; and Javi had placed his big hand over her belly while doing so and then he bend down and kissed her swollen stomach. He had looked at her with such a bright smile that all her doubts had been lifted. And she thought there was a chance for happiness that maybe things were rush but they could work it out. Isabel wants to see him again like that, to see him look at her as if it’s the only thing that matters, but lately there was something lacking. Clearly he needed more in life. It’s a lost cause.

The urge to use the bathroom makes her move out of the bed even though she wants to be wrapped up in his arms for the rest of the day. She tosses Javi’s shirt on and walks stealthily towards the toilet, but from the corner of her eye she sees old Chucho dress up in a suit and his white hat.

“Morning, mija” he greets grabbing the car keys

“Chucho, you were going to church, right?”

“Yes, you can go back to bed if you want, I’ll be back in half an hour”

“Do you mind if I go with you?”

“Not at all” he nods and smiles at her “But hurry up or we will be late”

Que la paz sea con vosotros the priest has his hands raise to the heavens and Isa sighs muttering the usual response as everybody in church. She has never been the religious type but as her mother said “when you’re desperate who do you turn to?” and she’s desperate for an answer a promise that actually can assure her that Javi will be alright and that he will be back and all his desire to fight this never ending war will vanish.

“Let’s go, mija” Chucho offers her his arm “It was a beautiful service, do you mind staying just for a minute I always light a candle for my wife”

“Of course” she pats his hand while he guides her through the aisle towards a small statue of the Virgin Mary, a small table bellow is full of little white electric candles that flicker imitating the real ones, Chucho kisses his coin before throwing it in the small slot.

“You still love her after all this time” he nods fondly, there’s a hint of pain and longing in his eyes behind the glasses

“Every day of my life” his voice comes out a little bit shaky

“Elvira was a lucky woman” Isa, still holding his arm, rests her head on his shoulder

“I did give her a hurt time too. I was stubborn, didn’t talk much, I didn’t tell her how much I loved her as much as I should have”

“Mm, it’s sounds just like someone I know” Isa sighs

“I know, but he does love you very much” Chucho pats her hand and they walk away to a beautiful sunny day in Laredo

“Well, it would hurt if he said it with words from time to time”

“Yeah, never been a good talker” he agrees and waves to some people he knows from town “You wanted to come with me to pray for him?”

“Yes and to remember the good times, I’ve never been back to this church since our wedding” Isa turns to face the white façade and remembers a day very different from this once almost seven years ago.

A sudden storm had hit the town two hours before the wedding, the trees fought back against the wind and the only sound in the church was the violent air swirling outside and hitting the windows and wooden door. Almost every guest had called and apologized for not attending and the plan to host an outdoor reception was cancelled. They ended up inside Chucho’s house. They moved his living room furniture to the corners and installed the plastic white table for the reception inside, a few family friends, Isa’s parents and Javi’s dad where the only attendees, by the newlywed really didn’t care at all. Javier had his hand over her belly all the time and had looked at her as if she was a miraculous apparition

“You look beautiful” he had said when the conversation between the guests was flowing nicely and they could focus on themselves. Isabel had bought a lace and vaporous dress the only thing that fitted with her belly growing each day. She had compared her look as a big old tablecloth but the way he was looking at her, somehow she believed she was beautiful.

“Medallas y estampas del Señor, la Guadalupana, también tenemos del Arcángel San Miguel, San Judas Tadeo y todos los Santos” a small old lady call for them from a simple little stand “All proceedings go for the orphanage” she completes and shows them a wicker basket full of plastic cards with different Saints on them, angels, Jesus and the Virgin.

“¿Ha dicho que tenía de San Judas Tadeo?” (You said you have one for Saint Jude Thaddeus?) Isa approached her “My grandma used to pray to that saint, always said that I was a lost cause because I didn’t want to clean up my room and that she prayed that he would give her more patient with me” she recalls with a warm smile

“Tengo estampitas y medallas, señora” (I have small cards and medallions) the old lady shows on each of her palms the small laminated image of Saint Jude and a small silver medallion with a simple cord

“I take the medallion, thanks” the woman smiles warmly and puts the necklace on a small paper envelope and thanks Isa when she leaves a few bills on the small box where they’re collecting the money.

“Let’s see if he really works miracle on lost causes”

Javi has been preparing his car for his trip tomorrow, checking on the tires, his papers and luggage and that he has enough gas. Elvira and Chucho are getting the animals inside their corrals while the orange light of sunset illuminates the trees and the river around the property. A beautiful view of her child laughing with her grandpa but that it’s clouded by the notion that in a few hours, Javier would be away.

“You have everything?” Isa squeeze his husband broad shoulders

“Yes, I think” he turns and grabs her by the waist

“I got you something” Isa reaches for her jean shorts pocket where she kept the medallion and leaves the small envelope on his palm “It’s nothing really”

“Gracias” he smiles when he takes out the simple brown cord with the silver medallion, he raises his eyebrow confused

“This is San Judas Tadeo, patron saint of the lost causes” she bites her lip while he inspects it

“And I am a lost cause, is that so?” he asks with a playful smile

“I’m beginning to think you are, yes. My grandma used to pray to Saint Jude so she would be more patient with me”

“And what are praying for?”

“That this will be the last time you have to go, that you will see for good how this job hurts you and that you have to let it go”

They say goodbye before bed since Javi will be leaving before dawn. From the door frame, Isa listens how he says goodbye to their child.

“You promise you’ll be back for my birthday”

“I promise”

They hug tight and he tucks in her sheets before closing the door.

“Pops” he hugs Chucho

“Be careful, mijo”

Javi walks towards Isa but she stops him before he could say a thing “I’m going to wake up when you leave”

“You don’t have to, Isa”

“I can get back to bed after. Let’s go to bed so you get a good 8 hours” they hold hands and enter his room.

“Good night, kids” Chucho says before closing his room door.

The single bed creaks with their weight and the many years of use, Javi holds her from behind since is the only position they both are able to fit. Isa laces her fingers with his and they stay in silence even if they are not asleep.

Isabel remembers how they were on that same position on their wedding night. The plan was to leave to the resort they had booked as a small trip for their honeymoon promising that once she gave birth to the baby they could organize a bigger holiday (it never happened) but the storm had made it impossible to drive and so they stayed with Chucho. Javi didn’t try to touch her more that it was necessary since the bed didn’t allow much movement but Isabel moved to entice him pressing her back to his hips but he didn’t say a thing or moved with her until she spoke

“I need you Javi”

“Baby, you should rest”

“You won’t hurt me”

And so they’re first time as husband and wife had been in that small bed covered in the same sheets that Javi had had since he was a teenager, slowly moving his hips against her and trying to quite down their moans.

I’m going to take good care of you he had said rubbing her belly when they were finished of my girls

“I’m going to take good care of you, Javi, even if you resist” Isa murmurs, she expects Javi to ask why she said that out of nowhere but he’s snoring softly his big body already relaxed on his side.

Isabel wakes up suddenly when, still asleep, she has moved and feeling the extra space she rushes towards the door. The light enters brightly through the windows and she knows she’s already late. Barefoot she runs to the door and even though the soil is humid with the morning dew she walks to the small path leading to the ranch iron gate. She sees the car’s traces on the ground. Javi’s gone. She walks to the house trying to control the sobs and sniffs that crush her chest.

After cleaning herself up and the trails she left after entering the house, she finds a small piece of paper on the desk in Javi’s room. Beside an old promotion picture and some chipped almost invisible sticker he had glued on the wood, he wrote:

(Image reads: See you in a week, don’t need to pray to anybody, I’ll always come back to you)

[linkspooky]

Oh! Top 5 Kimetsu no Yaiba characters?

I only have four characters I’d truly call faves from Kimetsu no Yaiba, but let’s go!

1. Doma - “Human emotions are nothing to me, like mere dreams…” 

Every time someone claims that Doma is the only demon without a tragic backstory I want to fight them. Apparently most people think that children who grow up in cults aren’t traumatized at all and grow into rational and well-adjusted adults. 

Doma is a character who shows no signs of empathy. However, he was a character who was never taught or shown any signs of empathy before. By the time he was an indpendenent adult he gave up on understanding it. Doma despises the cult, but it’s telling that he always stays there because it’s truly all he knows. He laughs at the people who come to the cult to distract themselves from the misfortunes of their life, but Doma too stays with the cult as a distraction for how empty and small his own life is. 

Doma really was too mature for a child, but also too immature as well. He was forced to grow up too fast because neither of his parents actively wanted to parent him. People act like he’s a born sociopath for being observant enough as a kid to notice that the all the adults who entered into his life were only there to use him. Kids are sharper than you expect, but also duller as well. Doma never realized that life was any different outside of his environment. He stayed in that childish mindset forever, and egocentric little kid who only saw himself first and foremost. That’s not the thinking of a sociopath, it’s the thinking of a child, children can’t imagine viewpoints other than their own because they haven’t developed empathy yet. 

There’s this assumption that people are either born good empathic people, or they’re not, but empathy is a quality that’s developed and learned. It was almost natural Doma became a demon by the end because not a single person in his life treated him as a human. Yet, despite reveling in being a monster Doma is still desperately searching for some meaning in his life too. He wants to have friends. He wants to feel the same way that other people. Even if it’s just a hollow imitation on his part, that was something in his lifetime but never got even up until the end. Doma’s this tragedy of empathy, because all he ever wanted was to feel the same way that everyone else did, to have the same connections they did, but because he was so isolated he only destroyed every small chance he did have at learning to empathize with another person. 

2. Shinobu -“Yes I’m angry, Tanjiro. I’ve always been angry.” 

I think Shinobu is interesting because she’s a bad person. I wish people would stop trying to paint her as a wholly good person who was loved by everyone around her. Shinobu’s character introduction is going out of her way to unnecessarily torture a demon for fun, and her attitude implies she has done this before. Torture is a universally bad thing, even if you’re doing it to a bad person. 

I’m not trying to moralize Shinobu. I think she’s much more interesting this way, as a fundamentally flawed person. A cracked vase that can never truly be full. Yes, Shinobu is loved by a lot of people, but she’s also fundamentally unable to receive that love. She’s stopped living a long time ago, part of her stopped when her aprents died, and she gave up when her sister died. If Kimetsu no Yaiba were a more morally complicated story, Shinobu existing for the sole purpose of revenge would not be treated as a good thing. It’s an empty way of living, and the only thing Shinobu can do to keep living is to cling to all of the ugly and negative emotions inside of her. 

The most interesting version of Shinobu is just rotten at her core, because she’s let the rot sink in and fester, because she doesn’t want to let go of her anger towards demons. It’s rare female characters are allowed to be filled with such ugly emotions, or allowed to express them in terrible ways. Shinobu plays games at being a healer, at being a person capable of nurturing like her older sister, but it’s just an empty imitation that falls flat. Shinobu at least in regards to herself doesn’t want to heal, she doesn’t want to get better, she wants to stay wounded forever so she can keep taking out her pain on the demons around her. 

I like to think that when she summoned up a hallucination of her sister in her final moments to encourage herself, that was entirely a fabrication on her part. Shinobu wanted to imagine her sister who once told her to just quit the Demon Corps and find a way to live and be happy was just as angry as she was. Shinobu’s delusion of Kanae is a sister that validates her and tells her that she has to be angry, that she has to stand up and fight again, that there’s strength in this. And that’s exactly it, Shinobu at her very core wants to be strong. She hates being powerless and weak. I think Shinobu is at her best when her anger isn’t righteous. She doesn’t want to protect others - she wants to feel strong. 

3. Iguro Obanai - “I want to defeat Muzan and die. I hope that will cleanse my corrupted blood. If we reincarnate as humans in a world without demons I will definitely tell you that I love you.” 

I like how Iguro is nasty, and unpleasant, and also mean to the main character for really petty reasons. Shinobu’s trauma is easier for a lot of people to swallow because she doesn’t show it, she just puts on a mask of being nice and people buy into that mask. Iguro even though he wears a physical mask over his mouth is less good at hiding his disfigurement. 

Iguro’s very traumatized and he acts that way. He’s anti-social. He’s withdrawn. He doesn’t get along well with others. He’s prone to violent outbursts. The scars left with Iguro are so deep they’re permanent. And I believe it’s because down to his core, Iguro believes himself to be a bad and selfish person for surviving while half of his family died, and thinking only of himself with his escape. 

It’s not really his cursed blood that Iguro wants to escape from, but rather his trauma. He can’t find a way to live with his truama or accept himself so he seeks some escape with it by suicidally charging into battle. And that’s another thing that speaks to the permanency of his scars. Iguro is deeply in love with one person, but he can’t admit, or accept that love because he views the current iteration of himself as so unlovable. 

He can neither give or receive love, and yet there’s some small part of Iguro that wants to heal. He wants to feel okay again. I think there is a part of Iguro that is very selfish. The way he acts towards Mitsuri isn’t really romantic, his protectiveness and jealousy are signs of entitlement. However, the thing is traumatized people do end up feeling entitled to happiness. Iguro’s so terrified of losing Mitsuri because she’s the one good thing in his life, and because of that he’s unable to love her in a healthy way. 

Even if Iguro’s given up on himself and decided that he’s poison, unlike Shinobu I see that there’s some part of Iguro that genuinely wants to heal. He wants to feel like a good person, he wants to find someway to continue living, its just he thinks it’s impossible for him to. Iguro’s desire to die and be reborn is so compelling that I actually want to see him live and be forced to deal with the prospect of his slow healing rather than getting his wish to be redeemed by death. 

4. Sanemi Shinazugawa - “My Nemi is the kindest…” 

Tanjiro as a character is kind in a way that’s easy to digest. When he’s angry it’s always righteous anger. His kindness never becomes a difficult. Tanjiro never does anything that’s difficult to swallow. That’s okay, but it’s also not that deep. 

Sanemi’s kindness and his anger are both a part of him. His cruelty does not detract from how kind he is, his kindness doesn’t excuse his cruelty. Sanemi is driven to act cruel, to be merciless, to be vicious not because he doesn’t care about people but he cares too much and the loss of almost everyone he’s loved in his life disfigures him permanently. 

Sanemi is a little kid who hunted demons all on his own for years by letting them fight him until he bled. He always fights by intentionally harming himself, hence why he shows his scars at all time and makes no attempt to hide them. Sanemi as a person is damaged to his core, but he still retains that kindness because it’s a part of who he is. 

Sanemi is angry because he’s kind. He’s violent because he’s kind. He’s so afraid of losing others again, the only way he knows how to be with them is to protect others from afar. Sanemi thinks he can abuse his brother, but as long as he protects him from demons from a distance it will all be okay in the end. 

What I like about Sanemi’s narrative is that it wasn’t. His actions ended up hurting his brother far more than helping him, the more distance he put between them, the more Genya threw himself into harm to get his brother to acknowledge him. At the end everything Sanemi did to protect him amounted to nothing, and Sanemi is the one protected and comforted by his brother when he should have been the one taking care of him. I think the author rushed to the tragic ending rather than letting the characters developed to get there, but still there’s an interesting choice that Sanemi is the one to survive and not Genya. Sanemi who has always wanted to just go off and die somewhere eaten by a demon while his brother gets to live happily. Now Sanemi’s never going to fix things with that brother, and nothing he can do will make up for what he did to Genya. However, he still has to find a way to keep living for himself. Watching broken people trying to find a way to keep on living is the primary reason why I read fiction in the first place. 

[nevergiveupneverrun]

Bodyguard - Chapter Fifty-One “Nobody but you”

Hello everybody, how are you? Here is chapter Fifty-one of my Story Bodyguard. I hope you will like this chapter.

I’m sorry in advance for the mistakes… English isn’t my first language and I do my best. Here is the link to the previous chapter: Click Here.

I hope you will enjoy this chapter :) 💛

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- Can you drive a little faster, Sir?

Stretched in my seat, I count the seconds scrolling from the phone call.

This unexpected contact, this alarming call for help

- I do what I can, but as you can see the traffic is increasing, the taxi driver replies. Coming back to Seattle at this time is never easy but you are quite lucky, there are no traffic jams.

I nod at his remark, my mind is elsewhere. 

I would have given everything to teleport myself at this moment.

- Something serious, Sir?

The driver’s question resonates weakly in the middle of my negative and worrying thoughts.

- You were supposed to take a plane and you rushed to the hospital… I don’t want to be indiscreet…

The tone of his calm and compassionate voice mobilizes my attention: he seemed genuinely concerned about what was happening to me.

- I don’t know yet… a friend has just been admitted to the hospital…

I’m sure everything will be fine, he insists with conviction.

“Everything will be fine”, his sentence resounds in my head and I want to believe him with all my strength but another sentence repeats itself tirelessly with a sound of a weak and heartbreaking voice.

“ I need you…” has she whisper me.

And despite all my desire to remain positive, the concern was stronger than anything.

The car turns abruptly while the driver takes the exit… and leaves the highway than expected.

- I go straight out here, the traffic will intensify if we continue on the highway and I know a shortcut by this road which should bring us just from the adequate coast of Seattle to reach the hospital, he justifies as if he had read in my mind.

I nod my head trusting him completely and losing myself in the landscape that scrolls through the car window. 

But the reflections do not stop.

The silence reigns in the vehicle in complete contrast to the boiling that takes place in me.

Worry.

Anguish.

And this growing guilt…

The ride continues in a heavy sand destabilizing atmosphere where I am both in the moment and elsewhere, anticipating what awaits me when I arrive at my destination… and dreading what I will learn there.

A blue sign then captures my attention and I recognize a road sign announcing entry into Seattle.

We are only a few minutes away from the hospital: the tension and a touch of apprehension are intensifying in me.

- You go to a particular service so that I drop you at the right place? Suddenly asks the taxi driver. The hospital is big and you could waste time…

- Uh… yes, I go to the emergency room… in intensive care…

All right, I’ll leave you right in front of the entry in question then…

I can hear the engine roaring a little louder when the driver takes advantage of a clear street to gain speed and I do not take long to see the signs indicated the hospital revealing itself at the end of the road. So we drive at a fairly brisk pace until we see the massive and elegant silhouette o the Seattle Grace Hospital, with its remarkable gray slate dome.

The driver quickly reduces the pace when arriving around the building and taking the direction of the “Emergency” section.

We meet ambulances and a paramedics vehicle… and I realize a little more violently than I am going to enter a place where dramas are played every day… I was hoping and praying at the moment more than for one thing: that the outcome is different and less tragic in my case. 

The vehicle stops suddenly: I distinguish the entrance to the hospital with the word “Emergency” in red which stands out and freezes me a little more from the inside. 

- There we are, I hope I did it quickly enough, I saw that you were extremely upset during the whole ride.

- Thanks for everything, I think I couldn’t have done it faster than with you.

I take a look at the counter then give him the bills to pay for the ride. Far beyond what its housing displays. 

- And keep the change…

- Thank you very much and I hope everything will be fine for your friend…

- I also hope, I repeat, getting out of the vehicle while he imitates me. 

I take a deep breath and take the direction of the entrance to the hospital with a confident step.

But the driver’s voice interrupts me as he calls me. 

- Your baggage, Sir!

Completely obsessed with my thoughts and impatience, I literally forgot that I had a suitcase… because at the moment, I had to be in a place… to leave the United States.

I smile weakly at the driver and recover the suitcase which he hands me politely.

- Thank you… I whispered, a little confused.

- No problem, see you soon.

I offer him a last little sincere and forced smile under the circumstances and take over the direction of the glass doors of the hospital, with an assured and rapid step, the suitcase whistling behind me against the ground.

Sliding doors close behind me.

And it is another world that I enter: an immaculate white, with a lively activity but surprisingly silent and this smell so particular of hospitals… a smell that I hate to the highest point, flashes of the illness of my mother invited themselves for a few seconds.

I shake my head as if to silence these painful memories and observe the indictions that surround me.

- Can I help you?

I turn my head and discover a young nurse by my side who smiles shyly at me: I had to look more lost than I suspected so that someone would address me like that after a few steps inside the hospital.

- Uh…yes… I’m looking for the intensive care, a friend was admitted a few hours ago…

- It’s on the second floor, you can take the elevator to your left and ask at the counter, he says softly. On the other hand, you cannot enter with a suitcase, he informs me, looking down at my right hand which squeezes the handle of my baggage. Give it to me, I’ll leave it at the reception, you can collect it by leaving.

- Thank you… thank you so much, I answer a little disconcerted, while he actually grabs my suitcase.

I watch him go towards the reception he has designed and I remain motionless and circumspect for a few seconds: between the taxi driver and this young nurse, I was lucky to meet only people who were deeply nice and compassionate… but maybe that is what comes naturally to us when faced with the anxiety and pain of others.

.

I head towards the elevator, designated by the nurse, with an almost mechanical approach.

The metallic noise of the doors clenches my ears: I enter the confined and gray place.

My finger presses the command “second floor” and withdraws immediately as if I had just touched a hot surface.

My fingers tighten mechanically several times, and my left-hand ends up pulling on the sleeve of my leather jacket, the tension gaining me despite myself: I rise in the air and my heart beats a little stronger.

What was I going to learn?

What situation awaited me on the other side of the door? I tried to remain positive, my anxiety is sharp and destabilizing.

A strident bell rings and the door finally open and reveal a long corridor… a white corridor, marked by empty chairs or on which people are sitting, heads down.

The corridor ends with hinged doors, from which I can clearly see a sign “reserved for staff”.

I take a deep breath, take a shy first step and walk towards the floor counter.

.

- Good evening, Sir, can I help you?

A nurse welcomes me with a soft and calm voice.

- Good evening, yes… I… I come for a friend, I end up answering, the words suddenly escaping with difficulty.

- Was she admitted here?

- Yes, a few hours ago, after an accident…

The nurse gets up and retrieves files places behind her.

- All right, I will see if I have any information to give you. Can you give me the name of your friend?

I nod and get ready to inform the nurse when I hear a murmur behind me a few steps away… my first name faintly reaching my ears.

I turn around immediately and I have almost no time to distinguish the image that is emerging in front of me: a silhouette advances rapidly and darkens in my arms.

I remain as paralyzed for a few seconds, my indecisive hands, now in the air, while the heat of a body radiates against me and two arms embrace me firmly.

A smell suddenly tickles my nostrils and a strange feeling of well-being instantly wins me over: notes of vanilla and coconut that I had missed so much.

I suddenly breathe more freely, as if I regain the full capacity of my lungs.

My hands end up landing laying on the softness of her hair first, before stopping behind her back, at the bottom of her lower back.

A jolt wins her and I guess that silent tears take hold of her.

I don’t know what to say, her reaction worries me a little more.

I just bring my hands back and forth against her, to silence her sobs.

- I… thank you for coming, she ends up saying with difficulty, always against me. Meredith is unreachable…I… I didn’t know who to call others… than you…

Her confession hurts me.

She found herself alone in this situation, and I was her only support.

- You did well to call me, I’m glad you did… I answer softly.

I detach myself delicately from her and finally discover her fully in front of me.

And I find this famous blue look that haunted me so much these last days… but my heart is tightened by discerning her red eyes with fatigue and tears. 

- Come sit down… I offered, pointing to two chairs, available a few steps away.

I nod my thanks to the nurse who had just observed the scene and lead Amelia with one hand behind her back.

This gesture that I have been able to make so many times in the past… a gesture that I had resigned myself to never repeat again. But the heat against my hand makes me realize that life takes pleasure in constantly contradicting us.

We sit down and I giver her a few seconds to calm down and dry the tears that ran down her cheeks.

- Do you have news?

- No, not yet… I’ve been waiting for two hours, she admits, keeping her eyes on her hands in front of her. 

This information touches me deeply… she has been here alone for two hours, in this freezing and frightening environment… two hours when she must have felt abandoned and helpless…

Her image at this moment also appeals to me: I do not recognize the determined and strong young woman whom I had left a few days earlier. I have before me, a young woman disoriented, frightened as a little girl would be… and after not hesitating to find the comfort of my arms, she now avoids my gaze, almost already protecting herself behind a shell.

I notice a water fountain in front of us and get up to fill a glass which I hold out directly to Amelia, causing a connection in our eyes. 

She nods and I try to send her a soothing and comforting look… but she breaks our visual connection as suddenly as it is established. I sit down next to her again, and I notice, a little distraught, that her face drops and that she avoids my gaze again. 

- Do you want to tell me what happened? I end up asking after a few seconds, having given her time to take a sip.

- I got a call from the hospital about three hours ago. Informing me that April was on her way to the Seattle Grace.

Her voice is weak and I notice that her hands tightly squeeze the plastic cup, a clear proof of the tension that assails her.

- Did they call you directly? I asked surprised.

- Yes, April has no longer her parents… and no family at all anyway. We may never have told you, but we met in a center… and that mays be what united our strong ties after all these years, she says, the face rising slightly, but fixing herself straight in front of her as if she were elsewhere…

- What did they tell you? I continue.

- That she had had an accident… hit by a car… she describes with vibrations in her voice.

She finishes her glass of water with a long sip: I extend my hand to take her empty cup, but she bypasses my gesture and throws the cup herself in a track can present in front of her.

I observe her come back to sit down and the circumstances of the accident call me immediately, but I don’t express my suspicions directly so as not to disturb her more.

- They couldn’t tell me much, Amelia continues, her gaze turning to the swinging door “reserved for staff”. They just told me that April was unconscious, that she had no serious open wounds, simple scratches but that they were going to have to examine her… they said nothing more to me, but since I’m here, I see that people admitted here have rather very serious situations… and that does not really reassure me… she completes in a whisper.

- Couldn’t they tell you more here?

- Not really, they explained to me that she was currently being examined… that a doctor will come to explain everything to me… she confirms, her hands clenched on her thighs, her eyes now fixed on her.

- This hospital is one of the best in Seattle, she is in good hands… I say to give a touch of optimism and confidence, even if deep down, I am also quite worried. I accompany my gesture with a hand placed on her knee, but I perceive a tension under my fingers… and I immediately withdraw my hand so as not to rush her. Do you know more about the circumstances of the accident?

- April has been working on filming in Seattle for 15 days. Considering the time, she was probably leaving her hotel to go to the filming locations, she had told me that she had night scenes because we were initially supposed to meet for dinner at my house. But there were no witnesses during the accident… in any case, no one who did not come forward. And the driver didn’t stop… that asshole left her like that on the sidewalk, do you realize? She is indignant with a flash one force in her voice and finding my gaze for the first time since our exchange.

I cannot help thinking that this accident is not trivial… and doubt that it is the simple mischief of a driver.

- Have you had any unpleasant surprises in the past two days? No threats?

- No, nothing at all… you think He was the one who knocked April down? Amelia asks me. We haven’t heard from him for three weeks now, I think he’s tired, don’t you think? She asks, her eyes vague, lowered again her hands, as if she was asking the question above all to herself rather than to me.

However, I don’t answer her question: I did not wish to add additional fears when she is already upset. Her attitude also destabilizes me: she was there, close to me, and yet she seemed to me elsewhere, distant. She refused all my attempts to connect and comfort: she had installed an invisible but impenetrable barrier between us.

.

- Are you from Miss Kepner’s family?

A question arises to my left: a doctor in a white coat, a file in hand, faces us.

A neutral and calm look on the face: the traditional mask of any good doctor.

- Yes, indeed, Amelia answers without hesitation. Do you have news? Is she fine? Se goes on quickly.

- I am Doctor Bailey, I examined Miss Kepner. Will you follow me, please?

We nod and follow the doctor: I stay a reasonable distance behind Amelia, but I maintain low pressure in her back, wedging a hand in the hollow of her lower back.

The doctor leads us into an officer, motioning us to sit down.

Behind her, an illuminated panel on which is placed a series of x-rays.

- So doctor, tell us, everything’s fine? Amelia resumes without wasting time, once seated. 

- As you know, Miss keener was admitted here, unconscious. She was knocked over at high speed and her head hit the pavement heavily. However, nothing alarming, a small concussion that led us to immerse her in a slight artificial coma. But she will wake up in a few hours… we feared initially that the damage to the head would be more serious, but she is doing miraculously well. However, in-depth reviews have revealed something else…

The doctor pauses and gets up to turn to the x-ray series.

The tension goes up a notch in the room, the breaths become more difficult when we realize that a new major will be revealed to us.

My gaze captures a frantic movement of the leg of Amelia which moves mechanically, like an unconscious reaction to express her stress.

- Here you have the scanners we made.

She points a finger at us and I recognize a spine x-ray.

- We discovered this edema and this fracture on her twentieth vertebra. 

- Which means? Insists Amelia.

- We don’t yet know what it is, we will know that when Miss Kepner wakes up, following her reactions. But this pressure at this level of the spine is worrying at this point. There is a significant probability that motor functions will be impacted.

My breath is cut off for a tenth of a second while Amelia puts one of her hands to her chest under the impact of this announcement. 

We simultaneously understand what is here suggested by the doctor and the consequences that this accident may have had. 

- You… mean April can’t walk anymore? Painfully asks Amelia, expressing the context, understood by the doctor.

She remains silent for a few seconds then resumes in a voice that is still as soft and calm.

- Do not rush to hasty conclusions. We will know more quickly, but I have to explain the situation to you and to prepare for any eventuality.

- Is one of these possibilities that she could no longer walk? Resumes Amelia by formulating her question. 

- It’s a possibility, unfortunately, concedes the doctor. I’m sorry to tell you this bad news, but we will know very quickly what it is, and we will do our best according to the circumstances.

.

An impression of deja vu.

The same calm and patient tone to explain a situation that means that nothing will be the same again.

Information that gives this overwhelming feeling… that everything is falling down around you.

My eyes stay fixed on this x-ray which materializes this new reality: time seems to stop… until a trembling contact touches my fingers.

I lower my gaze and I discover Amelia’s hand, timidly placed against mine.

I perceive her emotion by the weak but regular tremors which seize her fingers.

Without hesitation, I turn my hand in hers and wrap our fingers tightly, to prevent her from being overwhelmed by this moment.

To transmit my strength to her.

.

Because I know that at this moment, she only has me.

.

She proves it to me right now, by seeking my presence and my contact, by breaking down this barrier that she had built around her since our reunion.

.

In my turn, I show her that she can count on me, that I am there, by her side.

Without a word.

But with a simple gesture: I pull lightly on our two hands and place them against the top of my chest, just under my chin and thus intensely connecting our eyes.

At the bottom of her reddened eyes, I perceive a spark that dazzles me: a flash of confidence… a silent call for help which is no longer unanswered. A glimmer of gratitude and relief when she can rest on me: we will be stronger… together.

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Thank you for reading. I’ll try to post a chapter as soon as I can. Have a great week 💛

[askiisoft]

FAN ART FRIDAY: ALL THE WARRIORS, Part 4

This is it, ladies and gentlemen. For the past three weeks, I’ve had the pleasure of sharing the community’s original characters in the world of Katana ZERO—from war heroes to psycho killers, and everything in between—drawn by some the most creative and talented fan artists I’ve ever met. 

Today we salute the last of New Mecca’s “lost generation” in the jam-packed finale to All the Warriors. Those late to the party can catch up on the previous parts here: Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3.

Let’s begin.

[WARNING: The work herein is based on fan creations, and should not be considered canon.]

Alpha 7, “Jill” by @daratsugu

She had it all. A sports star since high school, Jill could have made history as a legendary athlete or breathtaking model. But beneath her physique and beauty was a strong heart, one that desired to make a difference in the world somehow. So when government suits approached her seeking peak physical specimens for trials of a ‘radical life-saving drug’, she accepted eagerly.

Not long afterwards, the war began.

Jill’s service record afterwards remains a mystery, given her lackluster communication skills and endemic shyness. But whatever she witnessed on the battlefield, it never blunted her kindness or dampened her faith in humanity. There is comfort in the certainty of her own mortality, and she’s determined to spend her final days doing as much good as she can.

By @daratsugu

—

Gamma 6 by @wpc0123wpc

More well-known than the deadliest assassins and most fearsome mafia dons, one man is famous across every restaurant in Chinatown: the ‘chao fan shen’, or “fried rice god”, known for his slovenly appearance, incredible combat skills, and insatiable appetite for his namesake. Of course, that’s not to say he’s a glutton—Six has developed an extremely discriminating palate, and any chef who skimps on the diced pork or sesame oil can expect a sound rebuke.

If only he paid as much attention in everyday life. Because of his poor eyesight and ever-present headphones, he’s an easy mark for thieves like Gamma 12 or enterprising muggers...or so it seems. Chinatown residents swear they’ve witnessed him pull an executioner’s battleaxe from his guitar case, but surely that’s just Eastern superstition. Right?

By @wpc0123wpc

—

Gamma 22, “TnT” by @_sbserpent

"Be silent, dress loudly.”

ZZ’s selective mutism hasn’t stopped her from drawing the eye of passerby. Her prominent back scars, perpetual bedhead hair, and psychedelic rainbow clothing are almost begging to be ridiculed. Those who know ZZ are smart enough not to tease her about it; others who make that mistake find themselves adding a few splashes of red to her outfit.

Since moving to the Second District, her fashion sense has actually started a minor fad among its population of wealthy young heiresses and bachelorettes, who have begun tousling their hair and wearing multicolored stockings in crass imitation. She’s even been featured in a few street fashion magazines, albeit unnamed. ZZ doesn’t mind the attention, so long as their photographers stay out of her way and keep their mouths shut...

“I warned you.” By @_sbserpent

—

Beta 111, “Gurkha” by @55_yamisan

There may be someone who once said, “I want to go back together.”

There may be someone who once shared their personal space.

There may be someone who didn’t want to die, and someone else who no longer wants to live...

All illustrations by @55_yamisan

—

Gamma 30, “Thirty” by @meto1030​

Just as other Gamma NULLs were violently psychotic or narcissistic, Gamma 30′s disorder was selflessness to a fault, believing any amount of suffering was worthwhile if it made things even a little easier for someone else. As a nurse or aid worker, Thirty could have done so much good, had they not been blessed with extreme reactiveness to Chronos that placed them squarely within a Gamma kill-squad.

Every waking moment was spent in neurosis, desperately thinking of ways they could possibly be of service around base camp, and each rest was filled with nightmares of squadmates buried under rubble or pinned by enemy fire, desperately crying out for help as Thirty fruitlessly crawled to them, trapped in slow motion. 

Once the fighting had ended and a ceasefire declared, the only way Thirty could imagine to be of use was becoming a test subject in the government labs, a position typically reserved for NULL candidates too weak to warrant a number and rank. There, at least, they are shielded from the predatory instincts of other NULL who would not hesitate to exploit Thirty’s altruism.

By @meto1030

— 

Gamma 61, “Geist” by @dawnygoi

Just because you’re living hand-to-mouth doesn’t mean you can’t pursue your passion. Due to their various psychoses, Gamma troopers developed more eccentricities than their predecessors—the most common being increased sensitivity to music. Their preferred genres varied, but a Gamma NULL could be found humming or nodding their head some invisible beat before or after a battle. 

For Gamma 61, his favorite beat was the deafening, breakneck rhythm of his trusty man-portable minigun, and he often burned through hundreds of rounds just to hear its song, filled with the sharpest crescendos and deepest bass. Sadly, it’s a luxury he can no longer afford, and he suffers the indignity of killing his targets with simple knives and other concealable weapons in order to afford his ‘medicine’.

— 

Gamma 33, “Weasel” by @zebdraws

As a legendary rock star once said, “ You see, you don't have to live like a refugee.”

When government spooks are after your head, you have two choices: spend what’s left of your life on the run, or become the biggest musical sensation New Mecca has ever known. 

As a soldier, Weasel was fiercely competitive, treating every ally as a potential rival and going to extreme lengths to win any wager, even if it meant resorting to violence. That never changed after he discovered his love of music, even though his musical talents are utterly dreadful, like most NULL. 

His “invasion” of several high-profile concerts prompted many venues in the city to begin employing armed security to patrol their dance floors, most notably Club Neon. However, the untimely death of DJ Electrohead has skyrocketed Weasel to stardom as Second District clubs scramble to book a replacement act. 

—

Gamma 511 by @Am3002814

On an employment survey for government security, Gamma 511 would fail by every metric: he’s paranoid, meek, and highly conspicuous thanks to his numerous nervous tics that emerge at even the slightest hint of confrontation. Even when mixed in a crowd, he seems to have an uncanny presence that unnerves those around him. Yet his security record is spotless, and none of his charges have ever come to harm. 

So what exactly about 511 sets so many ill at ease? Could it be his shifty gaze, restlessly darting about at strangers’ throats, stomachs, and nether regions? Maybe his constant and profuse sweating, staining his ill-fitting trench coat even on a cold winter morning? Or perhaps it’s the faint “ ゴゴ ゴゴ ゴゴ ゴゴ “  that permeates the air as he walks by with his awkward, loping gait...?

Truly, it’s the quiet ones you have to watch out for.

By @Am3002814

—

Beta 39, by @lyexueyee

Stealth and infiltration is an art, not a science. Beta 39′s brand of assassination involves hiding in plain sight—in a crowd wearing her perpetually tired and glum expression, or standing outside a store with hands on her hips, as if impatiently waiting for someone. She deflects attention so well, no one notices the bent and bloodied length of pipe sticking out of her faux-high school bag. 

“Hey, those are some cute hairpins!” A student on the train remarks. “Nnh,” 39 murmurs.

“Oh, you must be part of the kendo club!” An old woman exclaims, and is met with a half-lidded stare and a deep, echoing silence.

Hours later, a beat cop finds a local mobster dead in an alley behind his favorite bar, bearing signs of blunt trauma and several stab wounds from a low angle. His gun lies nearby, not a single shot fired. No suspects are ever found.

By @lyexueyee

—

Beta 34, “Ephemera” by @BMb_kngw

“What use is a tape that can only be rewound three times?”

That was what Ephemera overheard following his fitness trials and physical examination. The researchers had never encountered his like before: a genetic trait that resisted the effects of Chronos, such that a full dose would only allow him a few minutes of precognition and a negligible boost in reflexes—not even on par with Alpha-class NULL. His training results and leadership scores had topped the charts, but by a twist of fate, he barely escaped being sent to the labs.

Even after being assigned to a frontline squad, Ephemera faced continued stigma. Some refused to acknowledge him as “one of them” at all, and rumors spread that his ‘condition’ was contagious, and merely being around him could sap others of their Chronos abilities. 

The day he was rushed to the infirmary, his leg a bloodied stump, some jeered that any other NULL could have “reset” to undo such an injury. But oh, how the tables have turned. As it turned out, his ‘condition’ also shielded him from any symptoms of withdrawal. He lives now as a free man, one of the few NULL able to truly leave the war behind.

By @BMb_kngw

—

Beta 18, “Gav” by @smugeroni

Actions speak louder than words. Anyone who’s pried into the past of a Cromag War vet knows how bitter and cagey they get, but Gav’s wartime injury lets him dodge questions about his service days and move onto the crucial next step of healing and atonement. Homeless veterans who would otherwise despise those “test tube freaks” are thankful for his constant charity and unreasonably tasty meals.

There are still traces of a fighter behind his gentle smile: his bullet-riddled motorbike lies rusting in storage downtown, and he keeps a gun stowed behind the counter for the occasional mob racketeer. No one knows who steered Gav away from his life as a road warrior—who they were to him, or whether they’re dead or alive—but they take comfort in knowing a man can change, and not always for the worse.

—

Beta 49, “D.D.” by @sapheiri

On her first sortie as a rookie NULL, D.D. envisioned a battle worthy of pre-war action movies: fiery explosions at her back, bullets whizzing past her ears, and jets flying overhead as she charged the enemy lines, firing a gun in each hand. 

Instead, she found a nightmare. The enemy had set traps and laid ambushes everywhere; the laboratory eggheads had assured her that Chronos had made her immortal, but in that desolate jungle her faith shattered. She was found quivering in a muddy ditch, half-deafened by a close-range blast and wearing socks after forgetting to lace up her combat boots.

Instead of being discharged for proper therapy and recovery, D.D. became a test case for second-generation Prozium, designed to deaden emotions and instill obedience. She returned calm and combat-ready days later, and the researchers commended themselves for their success. They would later come to fear D.D. after seeing her in action.

Today, she can truly realize her former action-heroine fantasies, blasting her way past dozens of gunmen with guns akimbo and walking away unscathed. But she can feel no pleasure from it, nor reflect on the horror at the killing machine she’s become. Some say she still wears her boots unlaced to recapture the rush of danger and fear of death from that first mission, something she has now lost forever.

By @sapheiri

—

Gamma 22 by @dodokubobo

An ideal army is a combination of tactical genius and strict discipline. Gamma 22 had neither, leaning entirely on his remarkable aptitude for Chronos and prowess with his twin katanas to propel him through disciplinary headaches that would have earned any other soldier weeks in the brig. Evidently, it worked; drill instructors ignored his constant absence from combat drills and loud snoring during briefings. As long as he got things done, who cared?

This “golden child” mentality has only swelled his ego since the NULL diaspora, taking what he wants and abusing his abilities to do as he pleases. This makes him an obvious target, but many a foe have seen their cunning ambushes and clever traps fall apart in the face of 22′s sheer speed and skill. Among the New Meccan underworld, there is one piece of advice passed down to every aspiring hitman and bounty hunter: “Do not pursue Gamma 22.”

By @dodokubobo

— 

Beta 66 by @temeokopn

Before the cybernet made information widely accessible to the masses, intel had to be collected the old-fashioned way: through spying, stealth, or skullduggery. This was the perfect calling for Beta 66, who excelled at staying out of sight. 

On certain scouting missions, he would wait hours, even days, for the enemy to trip a land mine or succumb to slow-acting poison. And as he waited, he would listen to the sounds of wilderness and scan the night sky through his mask, counting the stars.

In a post-war New Mecca hostile to veterans, 66′s life became a more cloistered affair, surviving as an information broker instead of risking his life behind enemy lines It was only days after his data stream sputtered out that anyone discovered his absence. 

One can only hope 66 found the stars he so loved.

“I go to the stars.” By @temeokopn

—

Beta 9 “Heads” & Beta 10, “Tails” by Jicker

Dynamic duos are nothing new to the New Meccan lowlife, but Heads & Tails are trailblazers in terms of brother-and-sister team-ups. In between sibling quarrels over the superiority of shuriken or grenades, these two clean up mafia hideouts over twice as fast as a single NULL, wordlessly executing well-worn strategies they developed on the battlefield during their first missions against the Cromags; Heads cuts down obstacles to widen her brother’s line of sight or deflects bullets as he reloads, while Tails pins the enemy with suppressing fire as his sister closes the distance with her blade. 

Truth be told, their combined efforts often barely compare to some of the carnage a Gamma NULL could unleash. The difference is that, unlike a Gamma, Heads & Tails can’t be bought, nor bargained with. They can’t be bribed with Chronos or crippled by withdrawal. Whatever their reason for isolating themselves from other NULL, it’s clear that the only allies they need are each other.

“We have a Dragon to slay.” By Jicker

—

Alpha 66 by @ren_hyuga

Stella von Ruthuberia’s regal name suggests a relation to one of the prestigious Old Families, though pre-war records make no mention of her in any aristocratic lineage. How someone of her social status was inducted into the NULL corps remains an even deeper mystery. Some claim her to be an illegitimate heir cast out by her family to die inconspicuously, while a few believe she sought the immortalizing power of Chronos, something beyond what mere wealth could provide.

Since her near-fatal injury and the convoluted grafting procedure that surpassed all previous prostheses, the illusive von Ruthuberia has retreated from the public eye, her estate guarded by patrols day and night. 

However, some say her hermetic existence is merely an act, and amid a vast stockpile of ill-gotten Chronos, she is every bit as deadly as when she first donned her jet-black robes...

— 

Gamma 72, “Nightingale” by @throjnx

Any crime boss worth their salt knew the prospect of having an immortal assassin at your beck and call was too good to be true. It was. The Erlkings, on the other hand, were a two-bit smuggling racket that saw Nightingale as their ticket out of the Fifth District, whose residents could scarcely afford their services or protection fees. 

It worked, for a time. None of the other gangs in their district had managed to snag a Gamma NULL, and they quickly packed up and left once dozens of their number went missing, and police seldom bothered to venture that far out. But the Erlkings hadn’t anticipated how much Chronos Nightingale required nor how pure it had to be, neither of which their supplier could provide. 

When they tried making up the difference using threats and blackmail, there was only one way things could end.

—

Alpha 27, “Nina” by @HihumiHii

Like a spider spinning its web, the labyrinthine catwalks and cramped alleys of New Mecca are the perfect hunting ground for a femme fatale like Alpha 27. Her clientele are exclusive and her fees exorbitant, but her unique skillset is enough to outwit any bounty hunter and even the occasional Gamma NULL. 

Using a vast network of tripwires and strings that crisscross her territory, she can detect activity through the slightest vibrations, from the pounding of raindrops to the footsteps of a potential victim. Most never glimpse their killer, strangled or sliced to bits in her near-invisible webs of razor wire. Others hunt her fruitlessly, unaware she has long since fled.

Outside of contract killings, she frequents the most exclusive social circles in New Mecca to flaunt her mysterious wealth, and is one of the few assassins capable of operating in the near-impenetrable First District thanks to her unsuspecting government acquaintances.

—

Gamma 87 by childrenofgungnir

For Gamma 87, each day is a constant battle between “Life’s pretty OK. I got a steady gig and plenty of the blue stuff,” and “What am I still doing here? We lost the war. I keep this up, I’m going to end up dead.” 

It’s been over half a decade since Charlotte experienced a panic attack or felt stress at the thought of taking a human life, back when she could still count her kills on two hands. These days, it seems to come easier. 

Whenever she sees a penniless Alpha sulking at the bar in withdrawal, she counts her blessings under her breath. But Charlotte can’t help but feel that she’s lost a part of herself in those intervening years—the heartbroken daughter who would have tearfully begged her parents why they let the men in suits take her, instead of the swordswoman who casually sliced them to pieces and emptied their pockets. 

Every time, she stops the train of thought right there. Maybe it’s better this way.

By childrenofgungnir

— 

Gamma 21, “Lil’ Tomato” by @531012733Kyling

There are few things that can surpass the power of effective teamwork, something Gamma 21 and his partner-in-crime Gamma 37 exemplify. Brains and brawn. Long-distance sniping and up-close fisticuffs. Terrible guitar-playing and midnight drag races. 

21 is another in a long line of NULL with an affinity for music but almost no talent for it. Zero’s noisy neighbors can’t compare to the tedium of hearing 21 croon and pluck at the same few sour chords for hours, and his housemate 37 certainly doesn’t seem like someone who would put up with it for long.

For some reason, passerby don’t leave him as much money when 37 is hanging around...

By @531012733Kyling

—

Gamma 37 by @531012733Kyling

While other Gamma troopers favored blades and bullets, Gamma 37 preferred to pummel her enemies with both fists, aided by a pair of high-powered “boxing gloves” that amplified every blow. She scoffed at rookie NULL trying to deflect bullets with their puny blades as her gauntlets easily shielded her from volleys of machine gun fire—that is, until an errant anti-materiel round shattered her glove and nearly took her hand with it.

In the the intervening years, 37 has developed a custom fighting style based around her remaining gauntlet, learning to instead shift her weight and weave between enemy blows to deliver a bone-shattering right hook. She’s even able to use it while riding her motorbike, which has proved invaluable in chasing down targets.

By @531012733Kyling

—

Alpha 12, “Green Demon” by @IDUnknownForte

Whoo, I’ll have to tread carefully on this one. Alpha 12 is apparently a transplant from a Katana ZERO roleplay server, so she likely has lots of existing history that I don’t want to tread on. 

What I will say is that I love the idea of a NULL dive bar like Lucky’s Bar and Grill. On Friday night, all the down-and-out assassins trudge in to their usual seats, get extremely drunk, and yell about how they’d better start getting some respect because they “could level *hic* this whole f*cking city if [they] wanted to”, all while Alpha 12 slowly nods her head from behind the counter and pours out another round. Long live the revolution.

—

Beta 13, “Kata” by @couriervictor

Survival in the Third District is a daily struggle. But for every soldier, there comes a point where survival is no longer enough. 

Working for Dr. Alvensleben brought Kata to this point quickly—watching the doctor run hapless trespassers through impossible deathtraps day after day, hunting down targets for an employer he’d never met in person, and receiving his Chronos syringes via a *clink* in the pneumatic tube and a stilted pre-recorded message. 

With hope of Gamma 9 stumbling into the Slaughterhouse fading bit by bit, Kata considers the consequences of crossing the only man with the knowledge and resources to manufacture Chronos, and whether he would survive...

—

Alpha 19, “Tameiki” by @matowaar

There are few NULL who could claim to know Tameiki to any degree; to most, she was a terrifying, twitchy blur of facial features, zipping from room to room and victim to victim with inhuman speed. Only her closest squadmates, in moments of intense time dilation, could catch a glimpse of her true face, and even then only an expressionless mask resigned to marching alone amidst an army.

Though still communicating chiefly through writing, she has attempted to overcome her unique circumstances through focused training, such as remaining motionless for extended periods or slowing her speech enough to be audible to average human perception. She has even experimented with Chronos withdrawal, testing if the gradual ebbing of time can let her experience life at the same speed as those around her. 

If the ultimate fate of any NULL is to become frozen forever in time, how much longer would that eternity feel to Tameiki...?

—

Beta 12, “Twelve” by @fresh_fren

What’s easily broken is not so easily put back together. 

Since the Cromags didn’t fully grasp the concept of a ‘non-combatant’, Beta 12′s pacifism in the field earned her ridicule from both her comrades and the enemy. While other NULL treated battles as competitive killing sprees, for Twelve each encounter was like an escort mission—an unending effort to protect squadmates who loved nothing more than charging at machine gun nests with a knife. Can you imagine how frustrating that was?

Despite braving death to retrieve her teammates countless times, she was seldom recognized for her courage, and it became disheartening to incapacitate enemies non-lethally only to watch another NULL shoot them in the head moments later. 

Understandably, she hasn’t bothered keeping in touch with her former comrades, and few would believe a kind-hearted pacifist like her was once a veteran, anyway...

—

Gamma 75, “Elvis” by A Dishrag

"Hitting the broad side of a Cromag hut” was a corny insult that floated around New Mecca during the war, but for Elvis it was a job description, one that he was embarrassed to mention during the morning briefings or off-duty get-togethers at the local bar. ‘Tactical demolition’, he called it, but he knew it was an excuse; most of the sheet-metal huts he destroyed could’ve been knocked over by stiff breeze, not a state-of-the-art EMF railgun firing slugs at 4,000 meters a second.

At least they let him keep the uniform and gun when he left the corps, though “let” would be a strong word for it. He simply stuffed the gear into a Sakura Redux X Gaiden shoulder bag and walked out of the barracks, never to return. So far no one’s called him about it, so he figures it’s safe enough to incorporate into his cosplay outfit as long as he keeps the safety on. Right?

—

Gamma 13, “Reaper” & Gamma 14, “Mr. Bomber Glove” by @LoverHigh24

Twice the NULL, twice the withdrawal. It seems some Gamma NULLs, particularly those with complementary skillsets, stuck together in the aftermath of the war instead of turning on each other in their addiction. Rain and Kyle found common ground in their countryside roots, having worked as a team in the final days of the conflict and both sensing the war effort going south.

They’d bid farewell to their neighbors years ago, ready to die as they marched off to war. They agreed they’d be happy enough to see home one last time and spend the eternity lying in their childhood beds, instead of some seedy Third District bar. Yet, as mysterious new shipments of ‘dirty’ Chronos began flooding the market, they find themselves fighting against their former comrades to uncover the source...

—

??? by @Mr_BowerBird

You’re right, spear guy. I don’t know.

I don’t know quite what to make of this guy. His weapon, a Japanese naginata, is quite cool, but last I checked the Cromags didn’t really fight on horseback. His dossier had no name, NULL class, or number. There are no Gamma, Beta, or Alpha NULL OCs I’ve received with the number ‘32′ that was mentioned in his bio. Wish I had more to say, but it feels like I fell asleep in history class and only caught the last three minutes of an hour-long lecture.

— 

Alpha 22 by @nbsmgnm

As an Alpha-series cadet, poor Antonio saw action in the opening weeks of the Cromag conflict—before the NULL program became semi-public knowledge, before the “child killings” were in the Second District papers and protest signs, and long before the introduction of Gamma NULL, who didn’t much care who they killed. 

When an enemy sniper had his squad pinned down from a high forest ridge, Antonio was ordered to flank them while the others drew their fire. Tactically, it was sound: he was the smallest and thus stealthiest member of the team. But what he found was  a Cromag child prone in the grass, barefoot and scanning the jungle treeline with a rifle far twice his size. A boy or girl, he couldn’t tell nor recall afterwards, for the next thing he remembered was being pulled off their mutilated corpse, his fingers around a bloodied combat knife and voice hoarse from screaming. 

His commander patted him on the back and congratulated for a job well done, ignoring the bloodshot terror in his eyes. For weeks after he was plagued by nightmares, his hands awash in red and multicolored eyes, so many eyes, staring from the jungle in all directions. 

His death would later be ruled as a suicide. He would not be the last.

—

Gamma 44, “Luminous” by @hieroparsley

Sometimes, one of the best reasons to keep fighting is for another person—not a partner in crime, but someone to protect. At some point, Luminous was as her ward Anomaly is now: aimless and regretful, fearing for their life but lacking any reason to keep living. Since Luminous took care of the government agents who had tracked Anomaly from her Third District apartment and hacker lair, the two have been evading their watchful eye ever since. 

Sometimes their friendship is marred by arguments over what to do with Anomaly’s data on the NULL project: Luminous seeks to disseminate it to the public, either via the cybernet or print, while Anomaly argues for simply destroying the data, in the meager hopes it will save them from the government crosshairs. But Luminous has seen what they’re capable of; she remembers torching the homes of Cromag ‘collaborators’ even after they housed and sheltered New Meccan troops. Forgiveness is not in their vocabulary.

— 

Anomaly by @hieroparsley

—

And, at last, we’re done. 

Over the past month, it’s been great seeing not only the diverse and interesting backstories various artists derived from the scant details of Katana ZERO’s world, but also the friendships that sprang up between fan artists, drawing tributes of each other’s OCs befriending/antagonizing one another and creating an immersive world of NULL just under New Mecca’s surface. It’s been a magical thing to witness, and I hope it continues

A deep thank-you to everyone who submitted their OC to this multi-series showcase, and I’m sorry if it took until now to see your character featured. I needed to save some of the best for last!

I originally planned this event as a finale for the Katana ZERO Fan Art Fridays, but since people seem to be enjoying them, next week I’ll be returning to ‘theme weeks’ for a regular schedule. 

Truly, we are...”all the warriors”!

By @wqwrppwu

[secretlyatargaryen]

The Strings of Those Who Came Before: Part III - I'm You Writ Small

In part one I wrote about Tyrion's conception of justice and how that clashes with Tywin's values and leadership, and in part two I discussed how Tyrion compares himself to his father and often tries to imitate Tywin as a leader.

I often see the quote that lends itself to the title of this installment used to indicate how similar Tyrion and Tywin are, but here I am going to show that it means exactly the opposite. In part two I discussed how Tyrion's attempts to draw on his father's ruthlessness backfire for him. In this part I am going to talk about how Tyrion's attempts to mirror Tywin fail because Tyrion just isn't as ruthless as Tywin. Which is also why I think Tyrion's political (and moral) successes are when he isn't following his lord father's example.

Previously I discussed Tyrion's challenge of Cersei to protect Alayaya, and how he draws upon Tywin to make himself play the part of the monster Cersei expects him to be. In part two I said that this ends up backfiring because his threat is used against him at his trial, but it also backfires for another very important reason: because Tyrion isn't Tywin. For all that Tyrion cites that his father taught him to follow through on his threats, he can't follow through on his threat against Tommen.

"I promised my sister I would treat Tommen as she treated Alayaya," he remembered aloud. He felt as though he might retch. "How can I scourge an eight-year-old boy?" But if I don’t, Cersei wins.

Moreover, for all he thinks about “winning” against Cersei (someday I will write about Lannisters and their obsession with winning and games, and the “game of thrones” and how that translates to how they treat people), he is shocked when Tywin thinks he would have.

"You were the one who taught me that a good threat is often more telling than a blow. Not that Joffrey hasn't tempted me sore a few hundred times. If you're so anxious to whip people, start with him. But Tommen . . . why would I harm Tommen? He's a good lad, and mine own blood."

What’s also kind of interesting about this quote is that we hear from Tyrion two contradictory lessons he’s absorbed from Tywin. One, that sometimes a threat is better than the actual punishment, but also that you shouldn’t make threats unless you mean them.

This entire subplot highlights a fundamental difference between Tyrion and Tywin because not only can Tyrion not be the monster he was both raised to be and raised to believe he was, but he also does something that Tywin absolutely cannot understand because he does it to protect Alayaya, a common woman of disrepute, the kind of woman Tywin sees as nothing. That Tyrion would put the life of one innocent above the reputation of House Lannister is incalculable to Tywin.

Although Tyrion is morally opposed to Tywin's red wedding, he does commit his own share of war crimes, but even in his ruthless use of wildfire, he is appalled by the true amount of devastation it causes.

He found himself outside the city, walking through a world without color. Ravens soared through a grey sky on wide black wings, while carrion crows rose from their feasts in furious clouds wherever he set his steps. White maggots burrowed through black corruption. The wolves were grey, and so were the silent sisters; together they stripped the flesh from the fallen. There were corpses strewn all over the tourney fields. The sun was a hot white penny, shining down upon the grey river as it rushed around the charred bones of sunken ships. From the pyres of the dead rose black columns of smoke and white-hot ashes. My work, thought Tyrion Lannister. They died at my command.

[...]

So many dead, so very many. Their corpses hung limply, their faces slack or stiff or swollen with gas, unrecognizable, hardly human. The garments the sisters took from them were decorated with black hearts, grey lions, dead flowers, and pale ghostly stags. Their armor was all dented and gashed, the chainmail riven, broken, slashed. Why did I kill them all? He had known once, but somehow he had forgotten.

This is consistent with Tyrion having grown up believing that he has to imitate his father to be taken seriously politically, but not truly being able to cast empathy aside the way Tywin is able to, which ultimately does make Tyrion a better leader and lead to Tywin's downfall.

Moreover, Tyrion's own political downfall is punctuated by his statement that he is just like Tywin.

"You . . . you are no . . . no son of mine."

"Now that's where you're wrong, Father. Why, I believe I'm you writ small.

Many people read this as literal, but it's delivered with a huge dose of irony. Despite achieving conquest over his father, Tyrion does not say this in a moment of triumph or political success. He says it because he has failed. He is leaving Westeros a ruined man and guilty of the more terrible crime of Shae’s murder, and Tyrion doesn’t deny his own guilt. Which foreshadows that, rather than achieving greatness from mimicking Tywin, Tyrion's political and moral triumph will be a rejection of Tywin's philosophy.

Now, when we talk about Tyrion as a future game player we have to talk about his current goal of joining Daenerys. And I've written quite a bit before about how even though Tyrion's is motivated by violent desires, when he gets to Daenerys, he is going to be affected by her just cause and desire to protect others. He already is.

The dwarf shrugged. "I know that she spent her childhood in exile, impoverished, living on dreams and schemes, running from one city to the next, always fearful, never safe, friendless but for a brother who was by all accounts half-mad … a brother who sold her maidenhood to the Dothraki for the promise of an army. I know that somewhere out upon the grass her dragons hatched, and so did she. I know she is proud. How not? What else was left her but pride? I knowshe is strong. How not? The Dothraki despise weakness. If Daenerys had been weak, she would have perished with Viserys. I know she is fierce. Astapor, Yunkai, and Meereen are proof enough of that. She has crossed the grasslands and the red waste, survived assassins and conspiracies and fell sorceries, grieved for a brother and a husband and a son, trod the cities of the slavers to dust beneath her dainty sandaled feet.

He also has a moment where he criticizes Daenerys' political decisions and compares them to what his father would have done. Which is not surprising, since Tyrion is always comparing his own actions to what his father would have done.

The fact that there were any good wells at all within a day's march of the city only went to prove that Daenerys Targaryen was still an innocent where siegecraft was concerned. She should have poisoned every well. Then all the Yunkishmen would be drinking from the river. See how long their siege lasts then. That was what his lord father would have done, Tyrion did not doubt.

What's interesting though is that when considering how Tyrion tries to position himself and where he stands between Tywin and Dany, I don't think this is necessarily a reflection of what Tyrion thinks he himself would have done or what Daenerys should do. It’s not even really a good military strategy, just a ruthless one. I think this is really just another example of Tyrion trying to work through his father’s bullshit. As I said above, Tyrion has a pattern of both idolizing Tywin and criticizing him, sometimes at the same time, mimicking him in some ways but not being able to really follow through with imitating his father, and that's a good thing. Whether or not he will realize he is not a smaller version of Tywin, and can be much more, will remain to be seen. And I think this is also tied up with the big/small imagery often associated with Tyrion, which I think the character would approve of because he was %100 making that pun on purpose when he said he was Tywin "writ small." Many people interpret this to mean that Tyrion is Tywin’s copy, or double, but the specific wording of “writ small” not only is there for the pun and the metaphorical meaning, it’s also there to emphasize that Tyrion is a product of Tywin, not an exact copy but a smaller version. I’ve also written before about how the word “imp” has a medieval meaning of “sprig” or “shoot”, and how Tyrion is literally the offshoot of House Lannister, raised under Tywin’s long, black shadow, so that comparison seems fitting. By saying that he is Tywin “writ small” Tyrion is laying his claim as Tywin’s son and saying “I am what you made me.” It's Frankenstein's monster confronting his creator. It's an accusation, an indictment of everything that Tywin is. Not an endorsement.

Will Tyrion repeat the small-mindedness of his father, or will he, in the end, stand tall as a king?

[the-voltage-diaries]

Make Me Burn - Eisuke Ichinomiya [Request]

There you go, @leoamber66, @kbtbbposts, @stay-positive16

Warning: NSFW

“... fuck,” Eisuke said, scrunching up the note left by a certain someone on his bedside table before vanishing away into the early hours of the morning. ‘Let us forget what happened last night’, was what the note said. Glancing at the table clock to see it read 6:45 A.M., Eisuke got up to get started on the new day, trying his best to shake off the image of his secretary writhing under him in pleasure.

It had all started three days ago, when he had seen Elena, his then girlfriend, cheat on him. He had returned from his business trip two days early, hoping to surprise his girlfriend, spending time with her on the day he was born, 29 years ago. What he wasn’t prepared was the gift Elena gave him; a sight that broke him more than he thought he was capable of. There she was, the one he proudly called his, on his bed; naked, writhing in pleasure as some guy rammed himself into her like a hungry beast. 

Elena, upon seeing Eisuke, had begged on her knees for forgiveness, promising to never cheat again. Eisuke had only pushed her away violently, having his trust broken... yet again. His body had turned cold and rigid, imitating his heart, and as he had turned around and walked away from Elena, he had lifted up a hand to wipe away the single tear that had managed to slip out.

Eisuke shook his head as he turned the shower on, wanting to get rid of the bitter taste the memory had left in his mouth. He flinched in pain as hot water came rushing down on his body, making his skin burn. He did nothing to stop the pain, for it made him feel alive. It made his dead soul realise that he was still capable of feeling emotions. He closed his eyes, remembering the face of his secretary, how her biting remarks turned into moans of pleasure as his fingers worked their magic on her last night.

After giving himself a day to calm down after facing Elena’s betrayal on his birthday, it was nearly eleven-thirty at night when Eisuke took out his mobile, wanting to ask Soryu to join him for a drink, venting out to him in the process. What he didn’t know was that he had accidentally sent that text to his secretary, (Y/N). It was when she had texted him back, agreeing to come up to the penthouse, had Eisuke realised who the text had gone to.

Fine. Give me 10 minutes. Eisuke kept looking at the text time and again, not believing that his generally closed-off secretary was actually willing to join him for a drink after work hours. Much to his shock and unexpected relief, she had come, that too in record time. Dressed in a hoodie and loose trousers, (Y/N) looked much more casual and approachable than she had ever looked in the 6 years he had known her. 

Raising her eyebrows in amusement, she had said, “Are you planning to keep me out here the whole time or what?” Smirking, she had pushed him aside by his shoulder, making herself at home in his living room. Eisuke wasn’t the least bit bothered though, for they had gotten pretty close in the six years she had served him as his secretary. He could probably even say that after Soryu, she was the most trusted person on his list.

“You sure do seem comfortable, Ms. Secretary,” Eisuke flashed his usual smirk, feeling better already for some reason. Grabbing two glasses of champagne from the table, he passed one over to (Y/N) before sitting down on the couch, some distance away from her.

“What’s wrong, Ichinomiya? You’re not the one to just text anyone so late at night, asking them to have a drink with you ‘cause you want to talk,” She said, taking a sip from her glass. After bantering with her for a while about knowing him, he took a deep breath, finally deciding to let it out.

“So, Elena and I broke up,” He said, looking up to see (Y/N)’s eyes go wide with shock. Before she could ask why, he answered it, “She cheated on me. I found her fucking some stranger, in my goddamn bed.”

“THE FUCK?!” (Y/N) had screamed, not believing her ears. Eisuke seemed shocked too, for he had never heard (Y/N) curse in all these years. “But... she was the one who hinted at marrying you, right? For god’s sake, you even brought her a ring to surprise her!”

Eisuke and Elena had been dating for five long years, and just as (Y/N) had said, Eisuke had wanted to marry Elena. She had been his everything, his support, his rock, his companion, his best friend, everything. But this was before she cheated on him. 

After telling (Y/N) everything that had happened two days ago, he took a deep breath, waiting for his secretary to say something. As he looked over to his (Y/N)’s face processing everything, realisation of him trusting her enough to tell her everything struck him down hard. Just a few hours ago he had thought about everyone betraying him, but here he was, looking across at a face showing genuine anger for something that had happened to him, not (Y/N).

Slowly as the night progressed, one glass had turned into one too many, and before either of them could do anything, they both were drunk. Looking across at (Y/N), Eisuke felt some sort of heat in his chest. She had stuck by his side like glue even when shit had gone down, never once backing away from trusting him. 

Once I trust someone, it’s hard to break it, Mr. Ichinomiya, she had said. As Eisuke kept looking at her slightly flushed face, probably matching his own, he could only think of the deep sense of security and safety she had silently offered him in all the long years, ever since the day he had gained her trust. Had anything ever gone wrong, somewhere in his heart, Eisuke had felt assured that he’d have (Y/N) by his side every time. She had not broken that faith even that night.

Feeling unexplained emotions, Eisuke had suddenly felt the urge to kiss (Y/N) thin lips, the ones that always had a sarcastic retort at ready. He suddenly felt the urgent need to kiss her neck, mark her as his, and his only. He wanted to run his fingers down her sides, he wanted to watch (Y/N), who always looked so poised and composed, come undone. 

His eyes widened as the word came to his mind for what he was feeling - desire. Strong, unguarded desire. Little did he know, (Y/N) wanted him just as badly as he wanted her. She had never dared to utter a word, but even (Y/N) felt attraction towards her boss, but not because of those riches he loved to show off. She liked him because he had showed his vulnerable moments. He had proven that he was a human too, and he had his fair share of anxiety and breakdowns too. But the day Eisuke had introduced her to his then girlfriend, Elena, was the day when she had decided to bury her emotions within her forever. Now, though, as she sat there on the couch of Eisuke’s penthouse suite’s living room, she could feel the lid to her raw affection for him slowly come undone.

While she was busy wondering all this, she had failed to notice Eisuke close in on her, tugging on her wrist to pull her towards him, and before she could get her wits about her and stop her emotions from running amok, Eisuke had tugged her in by the waist, planting his soft lips firmly on her thin ones. Her eyes widened in surprise, before they closed on their own, her lips moving to kiss him back.

As Eisuke’s hands traveled along her sides, her eyes opened wide once again, her hands pushing Eisuke away, “Eisuke, no--”

“Shh already,” Eisuke said, grabbing her wrists and returning his lips to the place they were at before; her lips. Eisuke’s passionate kisses turned gentle, as if coaxing (Y/N) to relax into him, his tongue prodding at her mouth, aching to meet her own. 

Eisuke’s kiss did it’s magic on (Y/N), as she closed her eyes, relaxing into him, trusting him to handle everything. Just once. Even if he can be mine for one night, please, let him, she thought, parting her lips and allowing Eisuke’s tongue to entwine with her own, rubbing against each other, their lips in perfect harmony.

Things gradually turned from gentle to heated as they made their way to his bedroom, discarding their inhibitions in the process. Once they were standing near the bed, Eisuke slowly took off (Y/N)’s hoodie, taking his time to let the picture of (Y/N), nearly half naked, with the water from the aquarium reflecting off of her toned abdomen in the dark of the room. As soon as he had taken her hoodie off, she pulled him close, kissing his lips, trying to quench her desires.

The sight of (Y/N) in her black sports bra, matching trousers, and messy open hair turned Eisuke on more than any female had ever done. He went on his knees, looking up at her, in her eyes, smirking as he kissed just below her belly button, his fingers tugging at her trousers, slowly pulling them down, his lips following the path. 

(Y/N) whimpered, her fingers finding Eisuke’s hair, pulling him up as soon as her trousers hit her ankles, her fingers busy undoing the buttons on Eisuke’s shirt, kissing his collarbones, chest and abs and more of his skin peeked out. Eisuke was now more turned on than ever, for this woman did something to him. Her kisses made him feel not only heated, but also in some sense, safe. He felt he could be himself with (Y/N), in a sense that he didn’t even feel with Elena.

Grabbing (Y/N)’s face, he kissed the daylights out of her in an attempt to get rid of the overly emotional thoughts. He smiled when he found her lips kissing him back with the same fervor. Her fingers went down to lightly stoke along the outline of Eisuke’s crotch, making him groan from the sudden touch. She smirked, her touch becoming a little more firm as Eisuke’s hands traveled down to her abdomen, his fingers stoking her sides, making her whimper.

Her fingers took their time in undoing his pants, increasing his frustration at the lack of her touch. As soon as she had gotten his pants out of the way, he pushed her on the bed, his lips finding themselves at her ankles, slowly kissing their way up her smooth skin. His underwear felt tighter as he looked down at the beauty under him, in her black bra and matching panties, her hands gripping the sheets tighter with each touch of Eisuke’s lips. He got up, and freed the sheets from her grasp, placing her wrists on his shoulders. Eisuke kissed under her earlobe, nearly coming undone just from the mewl (Y/N) let out.

Going back to her knees, Eisuke continued to kiss her legs as his fingers played with her sides; one of her soft spots. Kissing his way up to her inner thighs, he took his time, smelling her oh-so-inviting core. Looking down, he saw a small dark patch already forming on her panties. Smirking, he gave the spot a light peck, internally shivering at (Y/N)’s responsive groan. 

His lips went back to hers and his fingers worked to take off her bra, leaving her top half bare for him to etch into his memory. Bending down to kiss her right nipple, he whispered, loud enough for her to hear, “Spread your legs.”

As soon as she had followed his command, his right hand went down to stroke the wet area over her panties, making a shiver run up her spine. His fingers continued to massage her folds while his mouth was busy kissing her neck, his other hand focusing on pleasuring her left breast. (Y/N) whimpered from the amount of pleasure she was receiving, when she felt Eisuke’s fingers slip inside her panties. 

A moan left her lips and Eisuke’s middle finger entered her folds, his thumb finding her clit. He rubbed circles around her clit, making her arch her back in absolute ecstasy. before Eisuke could go on though, (Y/N) flipped them over, making him lie under her, her hands slowly moving down to his. Eisuke closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of (Y/N)’s fingers massaging his balls, the friction caused by the fabric of his underwear adding to the pleasure. Her hands slipped inside his boxers, gripping his already hard member, as she slowly began to stroke him. She increased her pace as she felt his release coming, but then slowed down.

Eisuke, frustrated, flipped the over once again, removing his boxers and her panties completely in the process. The both of them were way too turned on and frustrated for any more games now, and he entered her with one stroke, making her moan out loud. He groaned, enjoying the tightness and warmth (Y/N)’s core offered him, his fingers toying with her clit.

(Y/N) screamed, her body not used to so much stimulation, and her fingers gripped Eisuke’s hair, holding onto him. Her hips rose up to match his rhythm, the both of them losing their hold on reason when faced with desire. 

Eisuke rocked into her, getting even more turned on when her fingers started plying with his nipples, twisting and rubbing them, and he rammed himself into her harder with each passing second. The both of them melted into each other as their orgasms rocked through their bodies, making them see white.

Eisuke fell on top of (Y/N), enjoying the feeling of her heated body against his own. Taking a moment to come down from his high, he laid down beside (Y/N), wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her to him, finally drifting off to sleep after two long, sleepless nights.

This morning, (Y/N) woke up to find herself in a certain someone’s embrace, the events of the previous night flooding her mind as her eyes widened in horror: she had slept with THE Eisuke Ichinomiya. Quickly getting out and dressing up, she left a not by his bedside asking him to forget that night ever happened, wanting to die in a hole of embarrassment. As soon as she had written the note, she rushed back to her place to get ready for another official day.

Dressed in a grey shirt, black trousers and black suit jacket, (Y/N) was busy typing away at her laptop when she heard the door to the office open. Getting up to greet her boss, she tried her best to not let the memories of the previous night affect her. 

As she turned to walk out of his cabin, Eisuke grasped her wrist and pulled her back, much to her surprise. Turning around, she was about to push him away when he pulled her close by the waist, whispering something in her ear that made her eyes widen with shock as she felt a chill run down her spine.

“You are now my girlfriend.”

[crossbowking]

That’s My Girl (Part 2)

(Click HERE to read That’s My Girl Part 1)

Requested By: @justrepostandlove

Summary: While scavenging for supplies in preparation for war against The Governor, Glenn, Daryl, and Y/N run into some bad people with even worse intentions.

A/N: I have a lot of thoughts to share about this story, but I’ll wait until the end. Thank you eternally.

xx crossbowking

Previously...

Daryl heard movement before he saw it — he heard a soft grunt…he heard the slight scraping of metal…he heard the squeak of a boot being dragged across the tile…

But by the time Daryl spun around, he was too late.

All he could do was watch in horror as Billy launched his blood-soaked body at Y/N, knocking her backward onto the ground before he raised his arm and plunged her missing knife into the soft flesh of her thigh.

Now...

Daryl didn’t think.

He felt the logical side of himself shut down and pure animal instinct take over as he aimed his crossbow at Billy’s head and pulled the trigger without a second thought. He felt no sympathy as his bolt lodged itself into the center of the man’s forehead. He felt no remorse as he fell, slack-jawed and wide-eyed onto the ground.

All he could focus on was the sudden gut-wrenching screams coming from Y/N.

Daryl threw his crossbow down and dropped beside Y/N, her face crumpled in agony as her shaking hands hovered over the center of her thigh, where the hilt of her blade was still sticking out. He pushed away any feelings of rage or fear, shut down any hints of weakness or panic and forced himself to remain calm.

Glenn appeared on the other side of Y/N a moment later, his face pale and taut as he surveyed the damage done to her leg.

“What’d we do?” Daryl snapped, speaking to Glenn but unable to take his eyes away from the blood spilling from Y/N’s open flesh.

“I-I…I don’t — I don’t think —” Glenn fumbled for the right words, racking his brain for an answer he couldn’t provide.

“Hey!” Daryl barked, his gaze locking with Glenn’s. “What the hell do we do? Hershel’s gotta’ve taught ya somethin’ useful!”

“I don’t know, man!” Glenn fired back, running a hand over his face. “We need to stop the bleeding — we need to get her back to Hershel.”

“D-Daryl,” Y/N grimaced, her entire body going rigid. “Take it out. P-Please, God, take the knife out!” she cried, squeezing her eyes shut as the remaining color in her face slipped away.

Daryl immediately reached for the knife, desperate to stop Y/N from being in any more pain, but Glenn grabbed his wrist just before he could wrap his fingers around the handle. He opened his mouth to protest, but Glenn quickly interjected. “We can’t,” he hissed under his breath.

“Why the hell not?” Daryl demanded, ripping his hand from Glenn’s.

“Look where the knife is, man,” he urged, taking a second to inspect the injury himself. “I don’t know much, but there’s a major artery right where that knife is. If we take the knife out and that artery’s been severed…” Glenn paused, his haunted eyes raising to meet Daryl’s. “She’ll bleed out before we make it home.”

Daryl felt the blood drain from his face, Y/N’s wounded cries mirroring his own internal anguish. How could he have let this happen? How had he not realized that Billy was still alive? Why hadn’t he intervened sooner? He’d had a gut feeling that something horrible was going to happen and it did. And now Y/N was paying the price.

This was his fault.

Y/N’s stark red blood stood out against the white tile floor, the puddle forming beneath her thigh growing with each moment that passed. Her cries had turned into soft whimpers, her body shaking violently every few seconds, her eyes squeezed shut, face contorted as she tried to breathe through the agony.

Daryl had never felt so helpless in his entire life. It felt as though someone had reached inside his chest and grabbed his heart, squeezing it in the palm of their hand until it disintegrated into nothingness. He couldn’t look at the red liquid inching towards him, couldn’t look at Y/N’s tormented expression, couldn’t look at the hilt of her knife still sticking out of her thigh.

So instead, he closed his eyes.

Time stood still for a moment — the blood pounding in Daryl’s ears imitating the steady thumping of a drum, his gut churning to the beat of Y/N’s quieted sobs, the overwhelming scent of blood — bitter like iron — wafting up his nostrils. It was almost too much for him to bear and he began to feel as though the store’s walls were closing in on him, threatening to crush him and the only thing left in this world that he truly loved…the only thing he truly loved?

The sudden notion caught Daryl off guard.

Was that what this feeling was called? Love? The thought had come so naturally — the stabbing reality that he might be on the cusp of losing the person he loved. Was that what it meant? The innate need to protect. The deep-seated desire to hold. The inherent demand to soothe. Daryl wasn’t sure he’d ever loved anything before, so why her? Why now? Why was the woman he loved bleeding out in front of him on the floor of a dirty marketplace? That didn’t seem right. None of this seemed right.

Time regained momentum when Daryl felt a shaking hand wrap around his own. His eyes shot open, locking with Y/N’s teary, fearful gaze as she squeezed his hand a little tighter.

And Daryl knew right then and there, in that very moment, that there was no way in hell he was about to let Y/N slip through his fingers.

Daryl didn’t think.

He shot up to his feet, ignoring the way his hands trembled as he undid the clasp of his belt and slid it off his hips. A sudden thump drew his attention to the front store windows — he felt his heartbeat quicken when he spotted a mass of walkers spread out along the glass, concealing the view of the parking lot, eyeing the three survivors hungrily as they pressed against the entrance.

“Oh shit,” Glenn cursed, expression panicked.

“Get the car,” Daryl immediately growled, dropping to his knees once more beside Y/N.

Glenn faltered. “What?”

“Get the god damn car an’ bring it ‘round back!” the archer snapped, slipping his belt behind Y/N’s thigh, wincing when she cried out softly. “M’ sorry. Ya jus’ hang on, girl. Ya gon’ be okay,” he murmured to her, reaching up to brush back the hair that had fallen over her face before taking a breath and looking up at Glenn. “Slip out the back door. Go ‘round the other side a’ the building. There’s a row a’ trees ya can cut through ta’ avoid the biters,” he urged as he tightened the belt buckle a few inches above the injury in an attempt to slow the bleeding. “Get the car an’ bring it ‘round back. Go.”

Glenn nodded quickly, jumping to his feet and jogging to the back end of the store. Daryl watched as he peeked through the exit, ensuring the coast was clear before he bolted from the store and out of sight. Daryl took a deep breath, gritting his teeth together as he clasped the belt buckle as tight as it would go, his heart breaking as he elicited another pained gasp from Y/N. “M’ sorry, m’ sorry. S’alright, girl,” he soothed.

“Daryl…” she winced, gnashing her teeth to stop from crying out.

“Jus’ me an’ you, now. I got ya,” he murmured, taking her hand in his as he surveyed the walkers outside.

“Hurts,” she whimpered. He hated how small she sounded, how weak she was getting. He hated everything about the stupid fucking situation they’d suddenly found themselves in.

“I know,” he rumbled, despite the panic threatening to crush him. “S’ gonna be okay. I ain’t gon’ let nothin’ happen ta’ ya.” Nothin’ else, ya mean, a cruel voice in the back of his head sounded.

Y/N nodded shakily, training her eyes on the ceiling of the market, her teeth chattering as the effects of blood loss began to take over. “T-Talk to me,” she suddenly grimaced as another vicious shiver racked through her, the force of it causing her to flinch as the knife shifted inside her.

Daryl paused, shaking his head slightly. “What’d ya want me ta’ say?” he murmured helplessly, feeling her fingers tighten around his, ignoring the rush of heat that flushed his skin.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice cracking slightly, body stiffening in attempt to keep the next wave of pain at bay. “Just t-talk to me. D-Distract me,” she chattered, forcing a small smile onto her lips as she craned her neck towards him.

Daryl sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment as the thumping outside started getting louder and louder. He felt a pit begin to grow in his stomach and sent a silent urge to Glenn to pick up the damn pace. Those storefront windows weren’t going to keep that herd back for much longer. He was already beginning to see cracks in the glass forming along the edges. “Shit,” he growled, before focusing on Y/N. “We gotta move. M’ sorry.”

Y/N’s expression furrowed. “W-Why do you keep saying that?”

Daryl faltered. “Huh?”

“You keep apologizing,” she clarified, wincing slightly.

Daryl didn’t miss how the words at the tail end of her sentence began slurring together. Instead of responding to her question, he braced himself to relocate Y/N towards the back door, where Glenn would be bringing the car any moment now. He slipped his crossbow over his shoulder, along with his pack before kneeling in front of Y/N. “We can talk all ya want after Hershel takes a look at ya,” he finally vowed, expression fierce.

But Y/N just looked up at him sadly. “Might not make it back,” she whispered weakly.

“Stop,” Daryl immediately shot back, the words slipping through his lips almost instantly. “I’m gettin’ ya home. Now, ya jus’ hang on, girl.”

Then, without another word, Daryl slipped one arm behind Y/N’s back and the other beneath her knees, hefting her off the group in one swift motion. She cried out in agony as her leg jostled, grabbing a fistful of his leather vest in her hand as he maneuvered her to the opposite end of the store.

Once he reached the other side, he set her down gently, propping her up in a seated position with her back pressed against the doorframe. A thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead, her breathing coming out heavier than normal, her skin even paler than before. Daryl feared she was seconds from passing out but then suddenly, her eyes widened, a horrified expression crossing her features as she looked not at him…but behind him.

A moment later, a deafening crash sounded throughout the store and Daryl whipped his head around, watching as one of the glass pane windows shattered open and a cluster of walkers began stumbling inside.

The first wave of walkers started feasting on Wade — Daryl wasn’t sure if the man was already dead from the beating he’d gotten or simply unconscious. Either way, as soon as the biters began ripping the flesh from his exposed skin, it didn’t matter anymore. He was gone.

The second wave of the dead swarmed around Billy’s body, the mass of them concealing him from view as they feasted.

Daryl didn’t think.

He uttered every curse word he could think of as he jumped to his feet and pulled out Wade’s gun, still tucked into the waistband of his jeans. He fired at the third wave of walkers who’d set their sights on the remaining live survivors. Five bullets found a home inside of the brains of five biters before the gun’s chamber emptied.

It felt as though his body was on autopilot as he slung his crossbow off his shoulder and began reloading it. He huffed a breath as he fired a bolt at an approaching dead one, feeling that familiar sense of satisfaction as the biter fell to the floor, an arrow through its skull. The crossbow reload time was slowing him down, so he opted for the hunting knife stashed in his pack’s side pocket. He glanced over his shoulder at Y/N as he reached for his weapon, noticing how her skin was nearly translucent, except for the streaks of blood covering her body. Her gaze met his, wide-eyed and terrified — so Daryl pushed aside his growing fears, shot her a determined nod, and simply positioned his body protectively in front of hers.

But there were just too many biters. For every two Daryl took down, three more took their place, hungrily clawing at him, attempting to tear into his flesh. His chest was heaving, lungs tightening, body aching, but he refused to give up. He prayed to whatever higher power was out there — if there even was any higher power out there — to help him get through this, to help him get Y/N out of here alive.

And then suddenly, in the next instance, he saw something that sent a jolt of hope through him — he spotted Glenn peeling through the parking lot like a bat out of hell, blaring the car horn to attract the dead infiltrating the storefront. His attempts luckily worked, distracting most of the walkers, who turned their attention in pursuit of the roaring vehicle and began ambling out of the store. Daryl felt a weight lift off his chest as the small horde in front of him became much more manageable. He watched Glenn disappear from sight, veering the car towards the back of the store.

But all it took was that moment — that single, solitary moment of distraction — and one biter made its attack. Daryl felt its cold, rotted hands twist around his limbs, the weight of the onslaught knocking him clean off his feet and onto his back before he even had a chance to take a breath. A rush of air escaped his lips as a heaviness settled over his chest. He lifted his head up, only to come nose to nose with one of the most grotesque walkers he’d ever seen, its jaws snapping wildly, vying for a taste of his flesh.

A swell of panic overcame him as he began flailing his arms and legs, trying to maneuver his knife for a counter attack, but to no avail — still, he kept fighting, grunting from the exertion, desperate for the release.

A mist of hot, putrid air filled his nose as the biter laying on top of him opened its mouth, unhinged its jaw, and launched a fatal bite towards the exposed flesh of his neck…

But then, he heard a blood-curdling scream and the walker on top of him stilled.

He faltered, feeling his breath catch in his throat as he craned his neck, struggling to push the dead weight off his body — and that’s when he saw it.

A knife embedded into the walker’s brain — Y/N’s knife.

And Daryl felt his stomach drop. He scrambled out from beneath the biter, roughly shoving it to the side. He sat up quickly, his gaze immediately landing on Y/N — she was splayed out beside him, crying softly, curled inwardly, fingers wrapped around the now visible gash on her thigh. “No, no, no,” he murmured in horror as the amount of blood spilling out of Y/N’s thigh increased like a river that had overflowed. “No! Damn it, Y/N, what did ya do? What did ya do, damn it! What did ya do!” he demanded wildly, although the answer was clear as day.

She’d saved his life. She’d ripped that knife out of her thigh and plunged it into the brain of the walker that had attacked him. She’d saved him.

And the cost of that sacrifice could very well be her life.

Daryl didn’t think.

“Shit!” he swore, rushing to Y/N’s side and pressing down on the gushing wound in an attempt to slow the bleeding.

An abrupt gunshot snapped his gaze up towards the back door where he saw Glenn suddenly appear, firing his pistol at the incoming walkers. “We gotta go!” he shouted in a panic, shooting at a biter that was about to swipe at Y/N’s outstretched leg.

Daryl growled under his breath, slipping an arm beneath Y/N’s knees and behind her back, quickly lifting her off the ground. She cried out from the sudden movement, but Daryl pushed forward, hurrying through the back door. Glenn laid down some cover fire as he backed out of the store, right on the archer’s heels, slamming the door to the market shut behind him.

“Door!” Daryl snapped, waiting until Glenn scrambled to open the back door of the car, allowing Daryl to maneuver himself into the backseat, Y/N still cradled in his arms.

The archer inched forward until he was able to reach behind and slam the door shut as Glenn threw himself into the driver’s seat. The door to the market flew open as a river of walkers began pouring out, banging their fists against the car windows. But within seconds, Glenn had the car lurching forward, speeding out of the parking lot, leaving the horde of the dead behind.

Daryl adjusted himself in the cramped backseat, pressing his back against the car door and propping Y/N up between his legs, her back resting against his chest. “Alright, alright, ya with me, girl?” he murmured, slightly out of breath, wrapping one arm around her waist to keep her from jostling and the other reaching down her thigh to apply pressure on the oozing injury.

“Uh huh,” she mumbled meekly, words slurred as her head bobbed up and down.

“How long ’til we get there?” Daryl growled, staring at Glenn through the rearview mirror.

“Twenty minutes,” Glenn replied as he tightened his grip around the wheel, brows furrowed as he shot Y/N a worried look. “Maybe more.”

Daryl huffed a breath. “Make it ten,” he demanded, turning his attention back to Y/N’s trembling body as Glenn applied more force to the accelerator, the car barreling forward even faster. “How we doin’ here, huh? C’mon, talk ta’ me, Y/N,” he urged, tightening the belt strapped around her upper thigh before slipping his hand into his back pocket for the red rag he always kept tucked there, using the material in an attempt to slow the blood flow.

“Tired,” she murmured, her head lolling against Daryl’s shoulder.

“I need ya ta’ stay awake for me, alright? We’re almost there,” he coaxed anxiously, wondering if he sounded as scared as he felt.

Y/N seemed to find a bit of strength and tilted her head up to look at Daryl, their faces inches apart, simply taking the other in for a long, silent moment. “W-Wanna know a secret?” she suddenly murmured, eyes dropping tiredly, lips chapped and colorless.

Daryl swallowed the lump in his throat. “What?”

A small smile slipped across her features, reminding Daryl of that brief, lighthearted moment they’d shared in the market before all hell broke loose. “I’ve always had a crush on you,” she singsonged lightly, her words scratchy and faint, but something fiery igniting in her eyes.

“Stop,” he hushed quietly, rolling his eyes a bit. In any other instance, her words would’ve sent his mind reeling, his pulse whirling. But right now, watching the life slowly fade from her captivating gaze, those words drove a dagger directly into Daryl’s heart.

She sighed softly, a vicious tremor racking through her and Daryl quickly tightened his hold around her, almost as if he could physically transfer his own strength into her. But after the shiver ceased, her body feeling heavier than previously, she slowly craned her neck up to look at the archer. “S’ true,” she murmured, her eyes suddenly watering, her lower lip trembling. “You’re a good person, Daryl Dixon,” she whispered, her voice breaking as a swell of emotion overcame her, a single tear slipping from the corner of her eye and cascading down the side of her face. “The best,” she corrected herself, hiccuping slightly as her teeth began to chatter.

That was when Daryl realized her lips were turning blue.

His throat tightened like a sudden lump had formed there as he stared down into Y/N’s wide, round eyes. He had no words. What was there to say? That he was sorry? That this was his fault? That he didn’t deserve her affection? None of that seemed right.

So Daryl didn’t think.

Instead, he tilted his head down, merely an inch, gently pressing his warm lips to her cold ones. He couldn’t explain what had come over him. Maybe it was Y/N’s sudden confession. Maybe it was the close proximity or the given circumstances. Or maybe, just maybe, it was simply something he’d wanted to do since the moment he’d met her.

And so there he found himself, melding his lips with hers, pouring everything he’d wished he would’ve said and done before today into that one, soft, meaningful kiss.

When he pulled away, slightly breathless, Y/N was staring up at him in a mixture of awe and sadness, a slight tinge of rosy pink brought back to her lips and cheeks. “About damn time,” she whispered faintly, her gaze portraying all of the longing that Daryl felt in the depths of his soul.

But then, her eyes fluttered…her head bobbed…her color faded.

And Daryl was hit once more with the startling reality of what was happening. “No, no, no,” he murmured desperately, tightening his arms around her, attempting to prop her up straighter. “Alright, ya wanted ta’ talk, right? Let’s talk. What’d ya wanna talk ‘bout, Y/N? Anythin’. C’mon, tell me.”

Y/N exhaled shakily, fighting off the dark sleep threatening to take over. “Hey, D?” she mumbled weakly.

“Yeah?”

“Doesn’t hurt anymore,” she whispered, eyes drooping into slits. “My leg.”

Daryl felt his heart skip, a feeling of dread coursing through him. “Y/N —”

“Hey, D?”

Daryl squeezed his eyes shut, fearing what was to come. “Yeah?” he choked out.

Y/N paused. “I’ll always be your girl.”

His eyes shot open as Y/N nuzzled closer to his chest, tucking her head beneath his chin, sighing softly — and Daryl couldn’t help but feel a little bit of life leave her with that single breath. His vision suddenly blurred, eyes glassy with a sheen of unshed tears as he curled his arms protectively around her middle. “Always,” he murmured deeply, pressing his cheek onto the top of her head.

It was quiet after that, just the humming of the car engine filling the air as Glenn raced it down winding road after winding road. The dwindling sun could be seen peeking through the forest trees, setting the branches aglow with its brilliant rays. The road curved distinctly and Daryl knew they were growing closer to the prison, only a few miles from home at that point.

But it didn’t matter.

Because he had felt Y/N exhale a few moments prior and never resume breathing after that.

She was gone.

His girl was gone.

And all he could do was sit there, arms wrapped around her depleted, blood-soaked body, and envision what life might’ve looked like had he had the guts to tell her how he felt before it was too late.

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

A/N: *crickets chirping*...*taps nails nervously against desk*...*anxiously avoids eye contact* Oh. Hi. Sorry, didn’t see you there. Hahahahaimsorryhahahaha.

OKAY, LET’S CHAT FOR A MINUTE BEFORE YOU DECIDE THAT YOU HATE ME.

Here’s what I’m feeling - I hated this ending. Well, actually, I loved this story and how I wrote it (which is pretty rare for me lol). But I hated this ending because I so badly wanted a happier one. I wanted Daryl and Glenn to get Y/N back to the prison in time and for Hershel to save her and for Daryl to sit by her bedside until she woke up and then profess his feelings for her and then live happily ever after.

But for the life of me, I couldn't get myself to write that. Maybe because most of my stories have happy endings (or as happy as can be in the middle of a zombie apocalypse). Maybe because I was looking for a challenge and angst is a challenge for me. Or maybe because this is simply the outcome I’d subconsciously envisioned from the beginning.

I honestly felt so depressed writing this ending, I wanted to go back and change it multiple times, but I just couldn’t. This is, unfortunately, how their story ends. 

BUT. FEAR NOT. 

If anyone out there is as upset as I am about this ending, we have a few options here...

1. I can write an epilogue about the aftermath of what happened/hopefully bring Daryl’s heart a bit of peace. (Poor baby. I’m so sorry I did this to you. Forgive me.)

2. You can tell me to fuck off and relax because I’m TOO INVESTED IN A FICTIONAL STORY WITH FICTIONAL CHARACTERS AND NO ONE ACTUALLY CARES.

LET ME KNOW BELOW IF YOU’D LIKE TO SEE EITHER OF THESE THINGS.

Ahem. Anyways. 

Quick shout out to my girls @jodiereedus22 and @wilhelmjfink for always being so supportive. I love you both so so much! (CHECK OUT THEIR STORIES! BOTH ARE AWESOME WRITERS!)

And thank you, everyone, for all the love and support this two-parter was shown - the feedback was honestly mind-blowing. I wish there was more I could do to express how much I love you all. Just know how much I appreciate each and every one of you. Thank you for the kindness. My heart is full.

Feedback is INCREDIBLY important. I write for my own happiness, but I also write for YOU. So don’t be afraid to shoot me an ask or message or leave a comment with your thoughts! It truly motivates me and helps move along the writing process. Let’s discuss and be friends!

If you want to be notified when I post again, let me know and I’ll add you to my tag list!

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FOREVER TAG LIST

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[thelioninmybed]

so you did a imrael/khazri meet-cute for if khazri's family never tried to kill him, but what would their first meeting be like if khazri joined the priesthood like his uncle suggested? :) thanks love u bye

There are eight gods in Zalach’ann - but no, that’s a simple lie, told so as not to confuse the peasants. The truth is that there is one god, and she is worshipped in eight aspects. 

The Lady of Spiders weaves the world and weaves us every one. She snips spent threads and she alone knows what will be left when her long labour’s done. Then there is Marath Who Rides Forth, rejoicing in war and bloodshed while her husband, Iavarin of the Hearth, preserves and mends what has been broken. There is dreaming Naphael, patron of poets, prophets and the mad, and Ilinya of scrolls and lore and secrets. Xolodano the Gilded is beloved of merchants and Valian is beloved of lovers. A whore’s god and our boy’s father danced in his temples once upon a time. The last and the least is Arteru, who walks in dark places, who is hunter and hunted, and if out lost son had kept his faith then it is Arteru he would pray to. 

If he had kept it - you understand there are some gods it is not fitting for a boy to serve? Well then…

Iavarin

“They say,” Imrael said, rising from his bow, “That the priests of Iavarin are the greatest healers upon the earth, and under it. I’ve travelled a long way to-”

“You and every other supplicant,” said the priest. He was a tall man, taller than Imrael, with a nose that would have been very handsome had he not been looking down it. “We do not barter away our magicks to pedlers at the gates.”

Imrael spread his hands, refusing to let his smile flicker. “Well that’s fine, I was proposing more an open exchange of knowledge.”

Behind the priest, one of the novices, robed in ashy grey, ducked his head to hide what Imrael was pretty certain was a smirk. The priest’s lip curled. “See him gone,” he said and turned away, robes swishing behind him, the great fire at the temple’s heart throwing his shadow out behind him. 

“I thought ‘Hearth’ implied, oh, I don’t know, homeliness,” he told the novice prodding him towards the temple gates. “Hospitality.” 

“We lean more towards ‘preserving’,” the novice said. He at least had the grace to sound apologetic. 

“I’ve seen pickled lemons less sour.”

 The novice smirked again. “I’m sorry. For a wasted journey.”  

Not as handsome as the priest but his face was far more appealing. “Not so wasted,” Imrael told him. “Buy me a drink, show me the secret passage into the temple archives, and we’ll call that hospitable.”

“A drink,” the novice agreed solemnly. “The tenets of my god demand no less.”

Naphael

“I thought,” said Imrael. “I thought. Eight gods, right?”

“One gods. God.”

“One god, eight whosits. I thought only the big one, spider lady. I thought only she could see. The thing. The fate of everything. So how come, how come your god. How come they get to do prophecy? It’s bullshit. Your god. Is bullshit.” 

That was probably a pretty stupid thing to say to a priest within his god’s own temple, but whatever they used to fuel their visions had stolen Imrael’s common sense along with his hand-eye coordination and he hadn’t had much of either to begin with. 

“It’s like a carpet,” said the oracle. He was draped across the floor and Imrael’s shins in a very good imitation of one.

“You gotta prophet harder than that. Or less hard because that actually was very prophety.” 

Propping himself up on his elbows, the oracle took another pull from the water pipe and said, less oracularly, “Can’t see much of it when you’re lying on it.”

“Ah!” Imrael cried. “I see. So you think it’s just a bit of blue with yellow squiggles, but then you sit up-” Imrael said, sitting up. “And it turns out that the squiggly bits are actually a dragon’s tail and the whole carpet is dragons fighting-”

“They’re not fighting.” 

“Dragons. But you didn’t know. Because you only saw a little bit”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” Imrael stopped looking at the carpet and looked at the man draped across his lap instead. Pretty, in a dreamy, disaffected kind of way. “Hey, hey, if you can see the future, how lucky am I?”

“Tonight?” said the oracle. “Not very. I’m a priest.”

Valian

“Did you come to pray?” said the dancer. He wasn’t wearing much to speak of, beside a veil and some bodypaint that glowed luminescent in the temple’s dim interior, and so Imrael struggled to pay attention. “Because it’s not- um. If you go to the outer districts, there are…places. That will serve foreigners. It’s not done here.” 

“I actually came to propose an exchange.” Imrael coughed. “Of knowledge, nothing else.” That was absolutely not true, but Valian was turning out to be a decidedly conservative sex god and Imrael knew better than to push his luck in a city full of violently xenophobic misandrists. 

“Oh.” The dancer’s drooping ears lifted and his stance from self-consciously provocative to something more natural. There were other priests tending to petitioners, taller and lovelier, and actually smiling behind the veils, and Imrael didn’t think it was by chance that the one who’d been sent to talk to an encroaching foreign man was small and diffident. “If you want knowledge, the temple of Ilinya. Has it.”

“Not the kind I’m looking for. I’m a doctor-” Imrael said and then waited, as he’d learned to here, for the other man to say something disbelieving but he only tilted his head so that the glass beads on his veil clacked and chimed. 

“Iavarin is for healing,” he said.

“Preservation. But creating new things, that’s all on your guy, right?”

“I suppose.”

“And it’s criminally underresearched!” Imrael spread his hands, taking in the veiled lanterns and incense, the gorgeous frescos of gorgeous men and women engaged in anatomically improbable acts, and the shameful lack of academic rigour. “All that drive, all that desire - and that’s what magic is at the root of it - but a little squeamishness keeps anyone from considering the full potential!”

The dancer’s expression hadn’t been seductive to start with, and now it was something close to a smirk. “You’d be surprised. Most every petitioner’s here for research. Inspiration. I don’t know anyone that comes here just for sex.”

“That’s very unfair, and my purity of purpose is provable; you just said you don’t let foreigners worship.”

“I’m not very good at my job,” the dancer said. And, before Imrael could work out if that meant what he thought it did, “I’ll show you to the library.”

Arteru

People had said there would be danger - he’d rather counted on it - but he’d been anticipating the sexy, not-actually-that-dangerous kind. It turned out being stalked through the woods by a mostly naked man was not even slightly thrilling.

The moonlight gleamed on the hunter’s bare skin, pale as the bone of the wolf skull mask he wore. There was a knife in his hand of black obsidian, sharp enough it might not even hurt. 

“I’ve heard stories,” Imrael said, voice wavering like the wind-tossed leaves on the branches above their heads. “About your god. About your hunts.” He’d also heard conflicting tales of the priesthood of Arteru; vows of purity and bloody orgies beside their kills. He didn’t think it would be a good idea to mention them now. 

“You have to kill something worthy, don’t you? And that- that should be someone who can run more than a quarter of a mile at a go, someone who’s armed, which I’m definitely not, so there’s really no point in killing me, none at all, gods, don’t come any closer, please-”

The hunter’s face was as still as his mask and his steps were silent on the leaf litter, slow and sure. He was twenty yards away, and then fifteen, shadow-dappled muscles rippling with a predator’s grace, eyes hidden by the dark hollows of the skull’s sockets. 

Imrael paced him, backing up, faster and faster as the man came on, praying to any of the gods he didn’t believe him that he would not trip over a tree root. 

Either no gods were listening or they took exception to an atheist. He stumbled and went down hard, grazing his elbows. He didn’t feel it, even though he knew coat and skin both had been torn open. The muscles in the hunter’s thighs tensed and Imrael clutched his bag to his chest, with the vague intention of throwing it as a last, desperate defence.

(It would occur to him much later that he was a wizard, but Imrael did tend to lose his head in a crisis.)

The hunter leapt. Imrael yipped and, shamefully, closed his eyes. 

There came a rush of air, a rustle of leaves, and the shrill screech of an animal in pain. No blade though. Unless he really hadn’t felt it, but that didn’t explain the yowling. 

Imrael opened his eyes again. Looked up to see something sleek and green and serpentine thrashing and flailing, long body coiling around the hunter, who had one arm about its neck, one hand on the gore-slick hilt of the knife buried in its eye socket. The drake’s flailing claws had scored darkly oozing gashes across his skin, and his mask had been knocked loose to reveal a face younger than Imrael’s own. 

The boy pressed in with the knife and, with a final convulsive shiver, the creature stilled, coils falling limp like a discarded ribbon. He ignored Imrael, who clambered slowly to his feet, wincing over the damage to his elbows, and then wincing more at the pins and needles pain as he set the skin reknitting. 

It probably wasn’t a good idea to draw the man’s attention, given he was wild-eyed and still holding the knife. 

“Thanks!” said Imrael anyway, because he’d never met a bad idea he didn’t like, and this one’s chest was heaving provocatively. “That…looks very worthy. Good job.”

The hunter, ignoring him, pulled out a knife and began to skin the carcass. 

[minaminokyoko]

In Vino Veritas: A Harry/Murphy ficlet

A/N: What if Harry had been the one to find Meditrina first in “Last Call” from the Side Jobs anthology? Just a little AU idea I had. Crossposted on AO3.

There weren’t a lot of things that could still scare me—or that I will admit to, anyway—but one of them was knowing that the temptress who was peddling enchanted mead that made people violent and crazy was somewhere with my best friend, Harry Dresden.

 I aimed a kick at the door—the good, strong kind you see in movies that almost never works, but it can be done with the right gumption—and it lurched open. I found myself in plush room with a wet bar and furniture.

 And a dark-haired woman currently straddling my best friend.

 She fit the description Harry had given me earlier—shoulder-length hair so dark it had blue highlights, and even from behind, she was beyond voluptuous. That sensuous body curled and uncurled itself over Harry’s upper body, her hips gyrating over his, and from the look of things, he didn’t seem to mind all that much. His hands were anchored over her waist and I could hear low, happy groans of pleasure slipping out of him between kisses.

 I clicked the hammer back on my gun.

 The woman pulled back finally and craned her neck, fixing me with green-gold eyes that glittered in the overhead lamplight with malice and seduction. “Well. Someone likes dramatic entrances.”

 I shrugged. “Go big or go home. Get off him. Slowly.”

 The woman smiled and didn’t budge. My grip on the gun tightened. “You must be Murphy.”

 I stiffened. Uh-oh. I glanced at Harry. His brown eyes were cloudy and dazed with lust. He looked blissfully intoxicated. The expression made me shiver. It was so odd on him. It left his features too vacant of their normal emotions: good humor, anger, passion, confusion, the works. Harry’s face wasn’t the type for mindless happiness. It also meant she’d gotten through whatever mental defenses usually protected him from this kind of tampering, and he’d told her I was coming. Dammit.

 “Yeah,” Harry said, hiccupping slightly, his grin wide. “That’s her alright. God, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

 I blinked. Twice. Uh. That was new.

 “Beautiful is a bit of a stretch,” the dark-haired woman sniffed. “But I can certainly see the appeal.”

 “Maybe you didn’t hear the part where I said get the hell away from him,” I snarled.

 She clucked her tongue, but this time, she slithered out of Harry’s lap and onto the couch next to him, though she carded her fingers through the hair on the nape of his neck. He leaned into her touch, still blinded by whatever had been either on her lips or in the mead. Shit.

 “Now, now, no need to be jealous, dear Murphy,” the woman said. “I fully intend to share the wizard with you over a pint.”

 She glanced at him. “Harry, be a dear and invite your lovely friend over for a drink.”

 He nodded and slid to his feet with a smoothness he’d never possessed. Harry Dresden was a lot of things, but smooth certainly wasn’t one of them. He was used to being the biggest, tallest thing around. A walking Redwood. He moved carefully at all times unless someone had hit him pretty hard.

 This version of Harry did not.

 He walked towards me almost gracefully. There was something in the motion that made a part of me want to react to him on an instinctual level. Not fear. I’d all but conquered that over the years on the force. No, this was…troubling. Because I was having a hard time concentrating on the evil bitch who’d drugged him and not concentrating on how utterly masculine and sexy that un-Dresden walk made him look, with his dark hair all mussed and his cheeks flushed and his lips pinker than they should have been.

 Oh, boy.

 This was going to be a long night.

 “Murph,” Harry said in a sing-song voice. “The mead’s really good. Even better than Mac’s ale. You gotta try some.”

 I set my feet as he strode closer. “Harry, concentrate. You’re stronger than this. Snap out of it.”

 He cocked his head to one side. “Snap out of what? I haven’t felt this good in years.”

 I offered him a wry look. “Yeah, exactly. You’re a miserable bastard when you want to be, remember? She’s tampering with your mind. You need to break free of whatever spell she’s got you under.”

 “And do you know why that is, Murph?”

 “Supernatural tart juice in her lips?”

 The woman scowled at me. Petty pleasure spread through me.

 He shook his head. “No. ‘Cause I’ve never told you the truth.”

 “Which is?”

 His chin lowered and he hit me with a gaze that almost rocked me back in my tennis shoes, it was so goddamn sexual. “That I’m absolutely fucking crazy about you.”

 My heart did its best imitation of the Tazmanian Devil playing a drum solo. Hot blood rushed up my neck and swallowed my entire face. No, Murphy. Stop that. Stop every last bit of that thinking in its tracks.

 “She’s in your head, Harry,” I said once I’d regained the ability to talk. “She’s making you think these things.”

 “No,” he said softly. “She’s not. And I think you know she’s not.”

 I licked my lips. “Harry—”

 “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you left for Hawaii.”

 My eyes widened. Shit, shit, shit. Shitfuckgoddamnmotherfucker. Stop him before he says something else stupid, Murphy.

 I shut my eyes for a second and then leveled a death glare at the woman. “Leave him alone or I’m putting a bullet through your skull.”

 She shrugged and spread her hands. “I have done nothing but shown him the desires of his heart, Murphy. He has embraced them, along with that of the gods.”

 “Yeah, speaking of which: you’re going to trash the magic booze and turn him and everyone else affected back to normal, or I’m putting your wiggly little ass in the ground.”

 She laughed. “Mortal authorities. You’re so confident, aren’t you?”

 “And you’re so arrogant, Meditrina.”

 The smile vanished at the use of her name. I bared my teeth in a grin. “Sorry, lady. I read. Now make your choice. Fix him or die. You have three seconds.”

 The gesture was tiny, almost invisible, but I saw her first finger on her right hand twitch, and Harry stepped into the path of my gun. I immediately swung the barrel away from him. Drunk with magic or not, I wouldn’t shoot him.

 “Murph,” he chided me. “It’s not hurting anyone. Not permanently.”

 “Harry,” I said in a measured tone. “Step aside. Or I’ll make you.”

 He grinned wolfishly and waggled his eyebrows. “Is it wrong that I kinda wanna see that?”

 I started to snap at him, but then I glanced all the way up into his face this time. He had his back completely to her.

 And then he winked at me.

 He didn’t lift his hand high enough over his shoulder that Meditrina could see it, but he pointed a long finger to the upper right corner of the room. I saw a long, unlit rectangular light that hung by a chain.

 “C’mon, Murphy,” Harry drawled, drawing closer, his baritone voice deepening, and from this close, it did…things…to me. “One little taste won’t hurt.”

 He mouthed, “Now!”

 I aimed and fired.

 The chain snapped loose and the light swung down in a perfect arc and smacked Meditrina dead in the temple. She didn’t even get a chance to cry out. She flopped over on the couch, unconscious. The light swung back and forth, smacking the wall nearby and shattering glass, before going still.

 “Nice shot,” Harry said, turning to check out my handy work.

 I lowered the gun…and punched him in the stomach. Hard.

 “Gah!” the wizard cried, tossing an alarmed look at me. “What was that for?”

 “You were faking the whole time?!” I screeched. “I thought she’d melted your brain or something, Harry. For God’s sake, I was about to shoot her.”

 He rubbed his stomach. “I had to sell it until you got here to help.”

 I arched an eyebrow and placed my free hand on my hip. “Oh, so it was part of the plan to have her all over you, then?”

 He had the grace to blush. “Well, that part I hadn’t anticipated, but…yes.”

 I eyed him. He squirmed. “What? I had to take one for the team. You’d have done the same.”

 He paused. “Wait, let me just picture that for a second—OW!”

 I hit him a second time, in a spot above the first one, and stomped over to Meditrina’s limp form, cuffing her and grumbling insults under my breath. “This is why you’re not a cop, you blundering, stupid, sexist, reckless oaf.”

 “Alright, alright, I’m sorry,” Harry sighed, rubbing his second sore spot. “But you have to admit it’s kind of cool that I fooled you.”

 I rolled my eyes and dug around for my phone to call for a pick up. “Hardly. I was concerned for your safety. I didn’t actually believe what you were saying.”

 I paused as his words flickered through my mind again. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since you left for Hawaii.” Again, my heart did the Tarantela. He’d been acting. Right?

 Somehow, I think he knew what I was thinking, because I glanced at him, and he had this soft expression on his face, one he rarely let me see. Harry was always honest with me about anything he could afford to be, but sometimes…sometimes he looked at me like that, and the only word for it was longing. I knew it all too well.

 Sometimes my face looked like that too.

 “I’ll, uh, start rounding up the booze,” he said rather quietly, all traces of humor gone. “Thanks, Murph.”

 He turned his back on me and headed for the door. I shut my eyes, cursed myself, and called out to him.

 “Harry!”

 He stopped and glanced at me over his shoulder. I offered him a fond smile.

 “Hurry up. I owe you a drink.”

 He smiled and nodded. “You’re a hell of a dame, Murphy.”

 “Pig.”

 FIN

I’m not going to stop writing this shit until I get a confirmed canon sex scene and relationship, Jim Butcher. Do you hear me, you bastard?!

[seaseren]

Beauty and the Beast, or, What Beats with Wood and Leaves

A Beauty and the Beast reworking, which is actually like 1/3 of a longer Beauty and the Beast reworking I think?

The was once a lonely merchant, who had three daughters. The first was clever, the second beautiful, and the third was both. But there were whispers around town, because some people swore that his last daughter had been born after his wife died, not before, and so she was a pariah around town.

Since the merchant was often gone and always, the eldest daughter took it upon herself to keep all his books, manage his inventory, and handle their finances. The second daughter, in hopes of marrying above her station and giving her family relief, learned the complex political games of the upper class and went to dances and balls. And the youngest daughter kept the house and raised their few animals and tended to her pride and joy, her rose garden. Her roses were the most beautiful in town, and it was from them, not her own looks, that gave her the nickname "Beauty".

One year a terrible cold snap went through the land out of season, killing not only Beauty's roses, but all of the flowers in the area. She became quite despondent, and when her father asked if she wanted anything from his latest trip, she asked only for a rose. (The second daughter asked for a new dress, since her nicest one was getting to the point where she could no longer keep the repairs invisible, and the eldest asked for a new set of inks, for she liked to draw in her spare time.)

The merchant went off to the glamourous capital city. He was able to find a dress easily, for he had done a favor for the dressmaker, and a fellow merchant who he had lent money to before gave him a steep discount on the inks, but the cold snap had hit here too, and nowhere could he find a single rose. After searching for a week and a day he finally gave up, resolving to make it up to his youngest in some way, and started the journey back home.

The weather was getting bad when he left and as he travelled on it only got worse until finally, when he was riding through the forest, it became a torrential downpour, and he was forced to look for shelter. He hoped to find a cave large enough to house him, his horses, and his wagon- perhaps, if he was amazingly lucky, a hunter’s cabin- but to his shock he pushed through the underbrush and came across a castle, beautiful and ornate but in quite a state of disrepair. He had never heard of a castle in the area, but he figured it looked old enough to be a remnant of some ancient lord, and in any case it certainly wasn't in use. He pushed the gate open and led his horses inside, and his fortunes compounded upon themselves for there, in the overgrown brambles, were roses- deepest red, purest pink, fieriest orange, palest white. His eyes alighted upon a yellow rose- Beauty's favorite color- and, carefully minding the thorns, he plucked it from the bush.

I'm sure you can guess what happens. A Beast, great and terrible, with tusks like a boar and claws like a wolf and eyes like a demon, roared out of the castle, calling him a thief and a trespasser, and demanded that the man become a prisoner of this castle forevermore. The merchant begged for a last chance to see his daughters and the Beast granted him this, but warned him that if he did not return in three days the Beast would track him like a bloodhound and kill him and his daughters. When Beauty heard, she felt so guilty that the night before her father left she slipped out of the house and returned to the Beast herself, demanding she be allowed to take his place. The Beast agreed, and when the father tried to find the castle again he found only a black rose on a stump.

The Beast gave her a wing of the castle to herself, and whatever books or clothes or food she desired, and a full fleet of invisible servants to serve her- but she could not stray beyond the castle walls. The servants were all kind, if quiet, and the Beast seemed to calm down, becoming distant instead of violent, but every day he asked her, "Will you marry me?"

Many times she considered saying yes. The servants certainly urged her too- in whispers they told her that she would be a princess, that she would be incredible, that he would take care of her for all her days. One night, while considering this proposition, she was wandering through the castle when she realized that her feet had taken her to the room below the Beast's balcony, and she could hear voices above.

"I'm sure it won't be long, dear," said a voice, like a mother and a monster all at once. "She's coming around to you, the servants say, and they will keep encouraging her. They want to be human again as much as you."

"I hope so," said the Beast. "Godmother, you have done all you can for me, but time is running out, and soon I will become a beast in mind as well as body."

"I'm certain," said the Fae. "Certain that she will be the one to break the curse."

Beauty fled before she heard anymore, rushing down mazes of crumbling stone corridors until she reached her room and pressed herself against the door, eyes wide, heart racing, mouth dry, and she stayed like that until morning.

She didn't know what to do now. She didn't know if the Beast truly loved her, or if he just saw her as a means to an end. She didn't know if he knew. And now that she knew, she could feel the cold necessity in the voices of the servants, the bitter honey when they said what a pair they would be, how treasured she would be, how good he was. Try as she might, she could not help but feel choked.

Ah, said a voice in her head, But see how well he's taken care of you! See how kindly he has treated you! Don't you owe it to him, to fall in love?

She wasn't sure, and that made her feel all the worse, like she couldn't make up her mind whether to be good or cruel. She wished above wishing that she had never asked for something as stupid and frivolous as a rose, and then wished even grander that she would stop being the type of person who would throw such kindness away, and most of all she wished that she could go home. Now, when the Beast asked if he could marry her, her throat turned to stone and her stomach to lead, and she could barely choke out, "Not yet."

But you must, said the voice. What kind of ungrateful woman would you be, otherwise?

As the year went on she could tell that everyone, especially the servants, were getting impatient. "When is she going to fall in love?" she heard them whispering, when they thought she was asleep. "He adores her, of course! Why can't she see that? Why would she be so cold! Is it possible she is a cruel woman?"

Beauty clutched at her stomach, and wondered if she loved the Beast. She wasn't sure she'd ever been in love before- all the men in the village seemed boring, and most avoided her regardless. She had barely had any friends, let alone loves, and her friendships were always with girls- summers spent under apple trees, hand in hand, a head leaned against another's chest- and her friends had all been married off and become too busy to spend time with her. She didn't hate the Beast's company- he was quiet, yes, and distant, but when he laughed it was genuine, and he had the same love of stories that she had, and often they went out and gardened together. But if her heart fluttered when he was around, it was out of anxiety, and her stomach had rocks, not butterflies.

She wondered if that made her evil. She wondered if that made her as much of a Beast as him.

Summer gave to Autumn gate to Winter gave to Spring again, and with the changing seasons the tension in the castle grew and grew. It was now nearly one year since she had arrived, and the servants now were all quite short with her- not cruel, but she could hear them whispering about her whenever she walked into a room. Nothing you don't deserve, said the voice, and Beauty hid her face and walked on. Now, when the Beast asked if she would marry him, it was with a total desperation, a pitiful kind of demand, like a child asking for a bite of bread. She no longer gave any sort of verbal response, just stared at her plate and chewed methodically, sipped methodically, eyes down, lips closed. She felt separate from herself, like things were becoming less and less real, like she was no longer made of flesh and blood but wood. She spent hours in the garden with no energy to work, just staring at the roses like a woman possessed. The Beast fretted that she was sick. She was sure that she was dying, and she deserved it.

She had thought that her birthday would pass without incident- after all, how could he know the day when she had never told him- but from the moment she woke up and a servant told her he would not be down for breakfast, she knew. He would throw her a surprise party- something romantic, at night, by candlelight, and he would ask her to marry him, and she would say yes. She would have to, after that, wouldn't she? She spent the whole day feeling more alive than she had in weeks- in terror, desperate horror down to her bones, as the day marched on and she knew that sooner or later it would happen. Once or twice, she considered going to his room and proposing to him right then- once or twice, she considered throwing herself from the tallest balcony. Instead she wandered the castle like a wraith, her face pale and thin, touching every wall and column like it would be her last time seeing them.

Indeed, at six pm one of the younger servants asked her to play with him in the old, abandoned ballroom, and she tried not to sigh as she said yes. As soon as she pushed open the door the room gleamed in candlelight, every inch of it polished and repaired and beautiful, and there was the Beast, his flesh constrained inside a suit in some imitation of the humanity he had lost. There was a dress for her as well, a dress fit for a princess, and a couple of the female servants whisked her away and changed her and all the time she felt colder and colder. He will ask, she told herself, And I will say yes. It's the least I can do.

When she was led out he swept her into a dance, and she followed mechanically, starting to slip away from herself again. She was so distant- bound in oak and elm and maple leaves and thousands upon thousands of roses- that she almost missed him saying it.

"-be my bride?"

She stopped. The world stopped. The ballroom fell into a growling silence, and she could not force her head to look up.

Yes. That's all you have to do. Say yes.

She remained silent.

Say yes, you cruel and wicked thing! Say yes, you ungrateful woman! Say yes, you monster, or else they will be cursed forever!

She could feel the stares of the servants even though she could not see their eyes. Her mouth was sewn shut, and her hands had gone numb. She heard a strange sound from above her, a bit of a huff, and fat teardrops fell to the ground.

"Why?" he asked. She clenched her dress so hard her knuckles turned white, and still could not say anything.

You will not marry him.

She bit her lip.

I will not marry him.

Her eyes, focused on the floor, shifted from brown to green, the new color spiraling out from her pupils and flooding her irises.

I will not.

Beneath her feet, the ground began to rumble, and the floor started to crack, and the servants started to scream. The Beast backed away, eyes wide and still filled with tears, and vines pushed through the marble and pushed through his legs. His mouth fell open in a scream and a wretched animal sound, alien from anything human, filled the room, and then was silences as roses started to pour from his mouth and burst from his eyes and his skin. The only sound then was a vague choking coming from all around her, from the Beast and the servants and her own wretched throat, and then she was alone in what might have been a forest, for all the trees and the ferns and the overflowing roses. The bodies were consumed by the growth.

She spent a long time standing there, her eyes refusing to look up, her body refusing to move. It might have been hours or days she stood there until finally her strength wore out, and she collapsed, and she slept.

When she woke light streamed through the windows and the gaps in the canopy. There were no signs of the cursed inhabitants of the castle- not even a smell, which she had perhaps expected. She felt numb in a different way now, like she was only a passenger in her body, and she watched as she stood and pushed open the door, which had been sewn shut by heavy vines that moved aside under her touch. She went to her rooms and packed a few of her favorite clothes, and then she went to the kitchens and packed some food fit for travelling, and then she headed out the heavy front doors and into the courtyard. Her- the Beast's- rose garden had once again been overgrown, and she plucked a white flower from the bush and kept it close to her chest, where its thorns did not prick her, and then she walked to the front gate, which was already ajar. She took a deep breath and felt a little more connected to herself, and then she swallowed, and she took a step forward and found that she could not.

She spent hours at that gate, pushing at the invisible wall before her in increasing frustration. As she threw her weight against it once more, there was a glow from behind her, and then a flash, and then a knife made of frozen light pressed to her neck.

You murderess!" cried the Fae, face contorted and snarling. "You witch! You wicked child, you creature! How dare you!"

'If you wish to kill me, than do it!" cried Beauty. "I will not stop you!"

The Fae pressed her knife even closer, so close that it pushed against the base of her neck and made her breath stop in her throat, but did not cut her. "As much as I wish I could- oh, as much as I could repay the insult, the injury!- I cannot touch you. Your mother is the Queen of the Unseelie Court, and even if you are nothing more than a changeling I cannot harm you for fear of her wrath! But my revenge is had already, through no action of my own. See how you are bound here, trapped in your prison, what might have been your home and your kingdom had you been less cruel! It does not matter to me how long you live, as long as you are bound to this place, you cursed thing! How fitting a fate, how beautiful a punishment! I hope you never die, so that you may spend every last day here, trapped, forgotten, alone!" With that she disappeared once more in a flash so bright that Beauty could not see for hours, so instead of moving Beauty sat there and wept.

She did much of that, in the time that followed, in between the rages and the numb silence. The first few times visitors found their way to her doorstep, she did not notice or care. She kept to her rooms, and they left soon enough. It might have been a decade or a century before one day she looked up from a book she had read a thousand times and heard sobbing from down below. She waited for it to stop but it did not, and eventually she closed the book, stood, and headed downstairs. A girl sat on the last step of the stairs, dress covered in filth and thorns, wailing, and try as she might Beauty could not remain unaffected.

"Why are you crying?" she asked, and the girl looked up and screamed, for Beauty was quite a sight. Her dress had gone to rags and she no longer wore shoes, so that her feet were calloused and filthy. Her hair was a mess of tangles and her frame was thin and gaunt, and her eyes were nothing natural. Beauty waited for her to stop, however, and eventually the girl stopped screaming and resumed her weeping.

"I am a maid, who fell in love with a lord!" she cried. "And he said that he loved me too, but I overheard him speak to his friend, and he said that he had no use for me, save one- in the bedroom!" Her body convulsed with her tears, and even Beauty's heart was moved. "I wish for revenge, but what can I do? I am just a commoner in his household, and he is nobility!"

The power came before the knowledge of it- all Beauty knew was that she wished to find a way to help this lovely young girl, with large eyes and soft hair, and her hand grew hot, and from it grew a red rose. She stared at it for a moment, but her heart- or something deeper, that beats with wood and leaves- told her its use.

"Place this underneath his pillow, and every night tear away one petal. As you do, he will fall more and more in love with you, and as his love grows his wealth, his power, his standing will diminish. By the time it ends he will be penniless and unknown, and devoted to you. What you do with him then is your wish."

The maid stared up at her, her sobs diminished, and wiped her eyes and her nose. "Miss," she said, politely, for Beauty did not look like much of a 'Miss', "Why are you doing this for me? And would you like something in return?"

Beauty paused, and thought. Finally she said, "A rose given for a rose received. Within the year, bring me back a rose- any one, any kind- and we will call it even. if you do not, the magic will disappear, and once again he will flourish, in his wealth and his cruelty."

The girl thanked her profusely and took the rose, and indeed within a month or two she returned with a deep pink rose and a beautiful smile, and told Beauty she kept sending the former lord on impossible tasks in order to win her love. From then on whenever a traveler found their way to her door she would greet them and, if they did not run at the sight of her, listen to their problems, and if she wished she would give them a rose- a rose to cure illness, a rose to bright wealth, a rose to make a beloved friend fall in love- and ask only for a rose in return. Some did not bring her back a rose, but many did, and she planted them in her garden and watched the spoils of her power take root.

She kept on like this for many years, and gained a reputation. If you flee into the woods, people would say, and find a stone path overgrown with weeds and moss, follow it, for at the end lies a castle and the Witch of the Woods. Do not flinch at her haggard appearance or her brusque manner, and be sure to bring her back a rose- or bring her a rose in advance, if you're practical- and she will solve your woes, if she think you worthy. The legend brought many more entitled, obnoxious visitors to her door, but she did not mind, for if they bothered her she would just leave, sometimes mid sentence, and wait for them to give up and wander back home. The ones she most liked to help were the young maidens, so soft and lost and beautiful, and every time one came for her help her heart sang.

One day she heard a clip clop of horse hooves in the courtyard, and she headed down to a most unusual sight. There was a woman there, with thin lips and black eyes, and a face that did not lend itself to smiling, dressed in strange travelling gear that she recognized from a lifetime ago, when her father would bring back goods from the East. Her black hair had been chopped short, as if she had take a knife to it, and there were large bags under her eyes. Strapped to the saddle behind her was a strangely wrapped package, about the size of a person, that Beauty could smell even from there- the smell of mice trapped in floorboards and birds caught by cats, the smell of a deer the wolves didn't quite finish, the smell that sometimes she imagined filled the ballroom and kept her up at night with only its ghost.

"They say you can do anything," said the woman on the horse, without any introduction. "Bring her back to life?"

Beauty looked at the lifeless form behind the woman, and then up to her face. "Who is she?"

"My sister, or step-sister. I helped kill her. Now I want to bring her back. Can you do it?"

Beauty was not entirely sure she could- she had done impossible things before, yes, but nothing quite like this. Finally she said, "Yes, but it will take more than usual. I will have to beg the assistance of my mother, and I will have to give something in return."

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Then what do you want?"

Beauty paused for a second, as if hesitating, but spoke anyways. "You must stay here with me, as my servant. Your sister will walk free, and you will remain here."

"Deal," the woman said, without a second thought, and so Beauty met Juan.

[sohlkim]

Mark Twain:  How to Tell a Story

How to Tell a Story

THE HUMOROUS STORY AN AMERICAN DEVELOPMENT.--IT'S DIFFERENCE FROM COMIC AND WITTY STORIES.

I do not claim that I can tell a story as it ought to be told. I only claim to know how a story ought to be told, for I have been almost daily in the company of the most expert storytellers for many years.

There are several kinds of stories, but only one difficult kind--the humorous. I will talk mainly about that one. The humorous story is American, the comic story is English, the witty story is French. The humorous story depends for its effect upon the manner of the telling; the comic story and the witty story upon the matter.

The humorous story may be spun out to great length, and may wander around as much as it pleases, and arrive nowhere in particular; but the comic and witty stories must be brief and end with a point. The humorous story bubbles gently along, the others burst.

The humorous story is strictly a work of art,--high and delicate art,--and only an artist can tell it; but no art is necessary in telling the comic and the witty story; anybody can do it. The art of telling a humorous story--understand, I mean by word of mouth, not print--was created in America, and has remained at home.

The humorous story is told gravely; the teller does his best to conceal the fact that he even dimly suspects that there is anything funny about it; but the teller of the comic story tells you beforehand that it is one of the funniest things he has ever heard, then tells it with eager delight, and is the first person to laugh when he gets through. And sometimes, if he has had good success, he is so glad and happy that he will repeat the "nub" of it and glance around from face to face, collecting applause, and then repeat it again. It is a pathetic thing to see.

Very often, of course, the rambling and disjointed humorous story finishes with a nub, point, snapper, or whatever you like to call it. Then the listener must be alert, for in many cases the teller will divert attention from that nub by dropping it in a carefully casual and indifferent way, with the pretense that he does not know it is a nub.

Artemus Ward used that trick a good deal; then when the belated audience presently caught the joke he would look up with innocent surprise, as if wondering what they had found to laugh at. Dan Setchell used it before him, Nye and Riley and others use it to-day.

But the teller of the comic story does not slur the nub; he shouts at you--every time. And when he prints it, in England, France, Germany and Italy, he italicises it, puts some whooping exclamation-points after it, and sometimes explains it in a parenthesis. All of which is very depressing, and makes one want to renounce joking and lead a better life.

Let me set down an instance of the comic method, using an anecdote which has been popular all over the world for twelve or fifteen hundred years. The teller tells it in this way:

THE WOUNDED SOLDIER

In the course of a certain battle a soldier whose leg had been shot off appealed to another soldier who was hurrying by to carry him to the rear, informing him at the same time of the loss which he had sustained; whereupon the generous son of Mars, shouldering the unfortunate, proceeded to carry out his desire. The bullets and cannon-balls were flying in all directions, and presently one of the latter took the wounded man's head off--without, however, his deliverer being aware of it. In no long time he was hailed by an officer, who said:

"Where are you going with that carcass?"

"To the rear, sir--he's lost his leg!"

"His leg, forsooth?" responded the astonished officer; "you mean his head, you booby."

Whereupon the soldier dispossessed himself of his burden, and stood looking down upon it in great perplexity. At length he said:

"It is true, sir, just as you have said." Then after a pause he added, "But he TOLDme IT WAS HIS LEG!!!!!"

Here the narrator bursts into explosion after explosion of thunderous horse-laughter, repeating that nub from time to time through his gaspings and shriekings and suffocatings.

It takes only a minute and a half to tell that in its comic-story form; and isn't worth the telling, after all. Put into the humorous-story form it takes ten minutes, and is about the funniest thing I have ever listened to--as James Whitcomb Riley tells it.

He tells it in the character of a dull-witted old farmer who has just heard it for the first time, thinks it unspeakably funny, and is trying to repeat it to a neighbor. But he can't remember it; so he gets it all mixed up and wanders helplessly round and round, putting in tedious details that don't belong in the tale and only retard it; taking them out conscientiously and putting in others that are just as useless; making minor mistakes now and then and stopping to correct them and explain how he came to make them; remembering things which he forgot to put in in their proper place and going back to put them in there; stopping his narrative a good while in order to try to recall the name of the soldier that was hurt, and finally remembering that the soldier's name was not mentioned, and remarking placidly that the name is of no real importance, after all,--and so on, and so on, and so on.

The teller is innocent and happy and pleased with himself, and has to stop every little while to hold himself in and keep from laughing outright; and does hold in, but his body quakes in a jelly-like way with interior chuckles; and at the end of the ten minutes the audience have laughed until they are exhausted, and the tears are running down their faces.

The simplicity and innocence and sincerity and unconsciousness of the old farmer are perfectly simulated, and the result is a performance which is thoroughly charming and delicious. This is art--and fine and beautiful, and only a master can compass it; but a machine could tell the other story.

To string incongruities and absurdities together in a wandering and sometimes purposeless way, and seem innocently unaware that they are absurdities, is the basis of the American art, if my position is correct. Another feature is the slurring of the point. A third is the dropping of a studied remark apparently without knowing it, as if one were thinking aloud. The fourth and last is the pause.

Artemus Ward dealt in numbers three and four a good deal. He would begin to tell with great animation something which he seemed to think was wonderful; then lose confidence, and after an apparently absent-minded pause add an incongruous remark in a soliloquizing way; and that was the remark intended to explode the mine--and it did.

For instance, he would say eagerly, excitedly, "I once knew a man in New Zealand who hadn't a tooth in his head"--here his animation would die out; a silent, reflective pause would follow, then he would say dreamily, and as if to himself, "and yet that man could beat a drum better than any man I ever saw."

The pause is an exceedingly important feature in any kind of story, and a frequently recurring feature, too. It is a dainty thing, and delicate, and also uncertain and treacherous; for it must be exactly the right length--no more and no less--or it fails of its purpose and makes trouble. If the pause is too short the impressive point is passed, and the audience have had time to divine that a surprise is intended--and then you can't surprise them, of course.

On the platform I used to tell a negro ghost story that had a pause in front of the snapper on the end, and that pause was the most important thing in the whole story. If I got it the right length precisely, I could spring the finishing ejaculation with effect enough to make some impressionable girl deliver a startled little yelp and jump out of her seat--and that was what I was after. This story was called "The Golden Arm," and was told in this fashion. You can practise with it yourself--and mind you look out for the pause and get it right.

THE GOLDEN ARM

Once 'pon a time dey wuz a monsus mean man, en he live 'way out in de prairie all 'lone by hisself, 'cep'n he had a wife. En bimeby she died, en he tuck en toted her way out dah in de prairie en buried her. Well, she had a golden arm--all solid gold, fum de shoulder down. He wuz pow'ful mean--pow'ful; en dat night he couldn't sleep, caze he want dat golden arm so bad.

When it come midnight he couldn't stan' it no mo'; so he git up, he did, en tuck his lantern en shoved out thoo de storm en dug her up en got de golden arm; en he bent his head down 'gin de win', en plowed en plowed en plowed thoo de snow. Den all on a sudden he stop (make a considerable pause here, and look startled, and take a listening attitude) en say: "My lan', what's dat!"

En he listen--en listen--en de win' say (set your teeth together and imitate the wailing and wheezing singsong of the wind), "Bzzz-z-zzz"--en den, way back yonder what de grave is, he hear a voice!--he hear a voice all mix' up in de win'--can't hardly tell 'em 'part--"Bzzz-zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n--arm?--zzz--zzz--W-h-o g-o-t m-y g-o-l-d-e-n arm?" (You must begin to shiver violently now.)

En he begin to shiver en shake, en say, "Oh, my! Oh, my lan'!" en de win' blow de lantern out, en de snow en sleet blow in his face en mos' choke him, en he start a-plowin' knee-deep toward home mos' dead, he so sk'yerd--en pooty soon he hear de voice agin, en (pause) it 'us comin' after him! "Bzzz--zzz--zzz--W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y g-o-l-d-e-n--arm?"

When he git to de pasture he hear it agin--closter now, en a-comin'!--a-comin' back dah in de dark en de storm--(repeat the wind and the voice). When he git to de house he rush up-stairs en jump in de bed en kiver up, head and years, en lay dah shiverin' en shakin'--en den way out dah he hear it again!--en a-comin'!En bimeby he hear (pause--awed, listening  attitude)--pat--pat--pat--hit's a-comin' up-stairs! Den he hear de latch, en he know it's in de room!

Den pooty soon he know it's a-stannin' by de bed! (Pause.) Den--he know it's a--bendin' down over him--en he cain't skasely git his breath! Den--den--he seem to feel someth'n c-o-l-d, right down 'most agin his head! (Pause.)

Den de voice say, right at his year--"W-h-o--g-o-t--m-y--g-o-l-d-e-n arm?" (You must wail it out very plaintively and accusingly; then you stare steadily and impressively into the face of the farthest-gone auditor,--a girl, preferably,--and let that awe-inspiring pause begin to build itself in the deep hush. When it has reached exactly the right length, jump suddenly at that girl and yell, "You've got it!"

If you've got the pause right, she'll fetch a dear little yelp and spring right out of her shoes. But you must get the pause right; and you will find it the most troublesome and aggravating and uncertain thing you ever undertook.)

--October 1895