#phase ii floor

[mostly-imagines]

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge. 

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go. 

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs. 

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.” 

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens. 

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before. 

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long. 

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?” 

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this. 

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion. 

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up. 

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works. 

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt. 

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.” 

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits. 

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily. 

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey. 

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least. 

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.” 

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?” 

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.” 

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing. 

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes. 

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you. 

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago. 

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you. 

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it. 

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him. 

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?” 

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this. 

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking. 

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter. 

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room. 

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air. 

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it. 

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water. 

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence. 

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder. 

You stare at him incredulously. 

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer. 

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment. 

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him. 

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind. 

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck. 

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you,  “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it. 

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official. 

🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨

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[blueiscoool]

900 Artifacts From Ming Dynasty Shipwrecks Found in South China Sea

The trove of objects—including pottery, porcelain, shells and coins—was found roughly a mile below the surface.

Underwater archaeologists in China have recovered more than 900 artifacts from two merchant vessels that sank to the bottom of the South China Sea during the Ming dynasty.

The ships are located roughly a mile below the surface some 93 miles southeast of the island of Hainan, reports the South China Morning Post’s Kamun Lai. They are situated about 14 miles apart from one another.

During three phases over the past year, researchers hauled up 890 objects from the first vessel, including copper coins, pottery and porcelain, according to a statement from China’s National Cultural Heritage Administration (NCHA). That’s just a small fraction of the more than 10,000 items found at the site. Archaeologists suspect the vessel was transporting porcelain from Jingdezhen, China, when it sank.

The team recovered 38 items from the second ship, including shells, deer antlers, porcelain, pottery and ebony logs that likely originated from somewhere in the Indian Ocean.

Archaeologists think the ships operated during different parts of the Ming dynasty, which lasted from 1368 to 1644.

Many of the artifacts came from the Zhengde period of the Ming dynasty, which spanned 1505 to 1521. But others may be older, dating back to the time of Emperor Hongzhi, who reigned from 1487 to 1505, as Chris Oberholtz reported last year.

Archaeologists used manned and unmanned submersibles to collect the artifacts and gather sediment samples from the sea floor. They also documented the wreck sites with high-definition underwater cameras and a 3D laser scanner.

The project was a collaboration between the National Center for Archaeology, the Chinese Academy of Science and a museum in Hainan.

“The discovery provides evidence that Chinese ancestors developed, utilized and traveled to and from the South China Sea, with the two shipwrecks serving as important witnesses to trade and cultural exchanges along the ancient Maritime Silk Road,” says Guan Qiang, deputy head of the NCHA, in the agency’s statement.

During the Ming dynasty, China’s population doubled, and the country formed vital cultural ties with the West. Ming porcelain, with its classic blue and white color scheme, became an especially popular export. China also exported silk and imported new foods, including peanuts and sweet potatoes.

The period had its own distinctive artistic aesthetic. As the Smithsonian’s National Museum of Asian Art writes, “Palace painters excelled in religious themes, moralizing narrative subjects, auspicious bird-and-flower motifs and large-scale landscape compositions.”

The shipwreck treasures aren’t the only recent discoveries in the South China Sea, according to CBS News’ Stephen Smith. Just last month, officials announced the discovery of a World War II-era American Navy submarine off the Philippine island of Luzon.

By Sarah Kuta.

[amateurvoltaire]

Exhibition 1793-1794 at the Carnavalet Museum (Part I)

For anyone interested in the French Revolution, a visit to the Carnavalet Museum is essential. Though the museum covers the history of Paris from its very beginnings to the present, it’s also home to the world’s largest collection of revolutionary artefacts. Which makes sense, given that Paris was the epicentre of it all.

Frankly, if you plan to explore it all, you’ll want to set aside a good 3–4 hours. For those focused solely on the French Revolution, head straight to the second floor, where you can get through the collection in under an hour. Best of all, the permanent collection is free, making it a brilliant way to spend an afternoon in the city on a budget.

Currently, though, there’s a special treat on offer. Running from 16 October 2024 to 16 February 2025, the museum is hosting an exhibition dedicated to my favourite (and arguably the most chaotic) year of the revolution: Year II (1).

Now, since the family and I were in Reims for a long weekend, I somehow managed (possibly after too much Champagne) to convince my husband to drive 150 kilometres to Paris just so I could see Robespierre’s unfinished signature. It helped that the kids were on board, too. Yes, the four-year-old fully recognises Robespierre by portrait. The one-year-old is, predictably, indifferent.

So, slightly worse for wear after a ridiculous amount of Champagne tastings, off we went to the museum.

1. Why Year II?

Because it was a catastrophe. No. Really.  Let me explain, in a very overly-simplified summary:

In Year II, France was plunged into an unparalleled storm of internal and external crises that would define the Revolution’s most radical year and ultimately mark its turning point.

Internally, the government was riven by factional divides, economic collapse, and civil war. The Jacobins (2) took control of the Convention, sidelining the federalist Girondins (3), aligning themselves with the sans-culottes (4), and arguing that only extreme measures could preserve the Revolution. Meanwhile, the more radical Enragés (5) demanded harsh economic policies to shield the poor from spiralling inflation and food shortages. The Convention introduced the Maximum Général (6) to placate them, which capped essential prices; however, enforcement was haphazard, fuelling discontent across the country. At the same time, the Indulgents (7) called for a reduction in violence and a return to clemency.

Externally, France’s situation was equally dire, encircled by the First Coalition—a formidable alliance of Britain, Austria, Prussia, Spain, and the Dutch Republic, all intent on crushing the Revolution before it spread further. With the execution of Louis XVI, France found itself diplomatically isolated, and the army was, frankly, a shambles. Most officers were either nobles or incompetent (8), and the soldiers were inadequately trained and equipped. In a desperate bid to defend the Republic, the Convention issued the Levée en Masse (9) in August 1793, sparking revolts in many cities and outright civil war in the West.

Confronted with this barrage of existential threats, the Convention dialled up its response in spectacular fashion, unleashing what we now know as the Terror—a period of sweeping repression backed by some rather questionable legislation. As you can likely guess from the name alone, this was a brilliant idea…

Put simply: by the end of Year II, nearly all the key figures who had spearheaded the Revolution up to that point were dead. And no, they didn’t slip away peacefully in their sleep from some ordinary epidemic. They met their end at the guillotine.

In short, Year II wasn’t just the Revolution's most radical and defining phase—it was also the year the Revolution itself died. Yes, the Revolution, in its truest, purest, most uncompromising form, met its end the moment the guillotine's blade struck Robespierre’s neck.

2. Overview of the exhibition

The visit  opens with the destruction of the 1791 Constitution and closes with Liberty, an allegorical figure of the Republic depicted as a woman holding the Declaration of the Rights of Man in her right hand. In between, the experience is structured around five main themes:

A New Regime: The Republic

Paris: Revolution in Daily Life

Justice: From Ordinary to Exceptional

Prisons and Execution Sites

Beyond Legends

More than 250 artefacts are featured, including paintings, sculptures, decorative arts, historical items, wallpapers, posters, and furniture. The layout is carefully structured around these themes, with a distinct use of colour to set the tone: the first three sections have a neutral palette, while the final two glow in vivid red, creating a very nice change in atmosphere.

What I appreciated most was how the descriptions handle the messy legacy of Year II. The texts actually admit that, while some Parisians saw this year as a bold step towards equality and utopia, for others it was an absolute nightmare. This balance is refreshing, even if things are a bit simplified (because how could they not be?), and it gives a well-rounded view of a wildly complicated time.

In this first part, I'll focus on the first two sections, as the latter three fit together neatly and deserve a deep dive of their own. Besides, there's so much to unpack that I'll likely exceed Tumblr's word limit (and the patience of anyone reading this).

3. A New Regime: The Republic

The first section covers the shift from the Ancien Régime to the First Republic, and, fittingly, it starts with a smashed relic of the old order: the Constitution of 1791. After the monarchy’s fall and the republic’s proclamation in September 1792, the old constitution was meaningless. Though it technically remained in force for a few months, it was replaced by the Constitution of Year I in 1793, marking the end of France’s brief experiment with a constitutional monarchy. In May 1793, the old document was ceremonially obliterated with the “national sledgehammer”—a bit dramatic, perhaps, but Year II was nothing if not dramatic.

This section zeroes in on the governance of the new republic, featuring the Constitution of Year I, portraits of convention members, objects from the Committee of Public Safety and the National Convention (including a folder for Robespierre’s correspondence), and national holiday memorabilia. There’s even a nice nod to Hérault de Séchelles (10) as a principal author of the republican constitution.

3.1 Martyrdom as a political tool

Interestingly, the exhibition places a heavy emphasis on the concept of martyrdom. A significant portion of this first area is dedicated to the Death of Marat (11) and, to a lesser extent, the assassination of Le Peletier (12). It’s a clever angle since martyrs—whether well-known figures or nameless soldiers—have always been handy for rallying public opinion. The revolutionary government of Year II understood this all too well and wielded the concept to its full advantage.

In this spirit, the middle of this section features a reproduction of David’s Death of Marat, several drawings from Marat’s funeral, Marat’s mortuary mask, a supposed piece of his jaw, and more. Notably absent are any issues of L’Ami du Peuple, as though the display suggests Marat’s death was more impactful to the Republic’s narrative than his actual writings. I’d agree with that—the moment he died, he was elevated to a mythic status, and his legacy as a martyr of Year II took on a life of its own.

4. Paris: Revolution in Daily Life

While the first section focuses on the workings of governance, this part delves into Year II’s impact on ordinary Parisians. This period stands out for two reasons: France was in economic and political turmoil (wars, both internal and external, aren’t exactly budget-friendly), yet it also managed to introduce some remarkably forward-thinking legislation aimed at improving the lives of the common people.

4.1 The Paris Commune & Paranoia

To understand life in Paris during Year II, we can’t overlook the role of the Paris Commune (13). Rooted in the revolutionary spirit of the Estates General of 1789 and officially formalised by the law of 19 October 1792, the Commune was the governing body responsible for Paris. Divided into forty-eight sections, each with its own assembly, it gave citizens a strong voice in electing representatives and local officials. Led by a mayor, a general council, and a municipal body, the Commune handled essential civic matters like public works, subsistence, and policing.

From 2 June 1793 to 27 July 1794 (the height of Year II), the Commune implemented the policies of the Montagnard (14) Convention, which aimed to build a social structure grounded in the natural rights of man and citizen, reaffirmed on 24 June 1793. This social programme sought to guarantee basic rights such as subsistence (covering food, lighting, heating, clothing, and shelter), work (including access to tools, raw materials, and goods), assistance (support for children, the elderly, and the sick; rights to housing and healthcare), and education (fostering knowledge and preserving arts and sciences).

All this unfolded in an atmosphere thick with paranoia and intense policing; enemies were believed to lurk everywhere. The display does a solid job of capturing this side of the Paris Commune, featuring various illustrations that urged people to conform to new revolutionary norms—wear the cockade, play your part in the social order, fight for and celebrate the motherland, and so on.

One of my favourite pieces was the record of cartes de sûreté (safety cards) from one of the 48 Parisian sections. Made compulsory for Parisians in April 1793, these cards were meant to confirm that their holders weren’t considered “suspects” in a climate thick with paranoia. This small, seemingly random document—issued or revoked at the discretion of an equally random Revolutionary Committee—had the power to decide a person’s freedom or the lack of it.

At the risk of sounding sentimental, in the study of history, we often focus on broad events and overlook the "little guy" who lived through them. But here, this record reminds us that behind each document was, in fact, a real person. And that this very real person was trying to make their way through a reality that, 230 years ago, must have felt stifling and, at times, terrifying.

4.2 Education

A significant spotlight is rightly placed on education in this exhibition section, given the sweeping changes it underwent during the Revolution.

Before 1789, Paris was well-supplied with educational institutions. Eleven historic colleges and a semi-subsidised university offered prestigious studies in theology, law, medicine, and the arts, drawing students from across France. Inspired by Enlightenment ideals, boarding schools and specialised courses in subjects like science and mathematics had sprung up, mainly catering to the middle class, while working-class children attended charity schools. Private adult education also provided technical and scientific training. The catch? Most of these were church-operated.

Revolutionary policies targeting the Church caused a mass departure of teachers, financial difficulties, and restrictions on hiring unsalaried educators. Military demands, economic turmoil, and protests added to the strain on schools. Even the Sorbonne (15) was shut down in 1792, and by late 1793, nearly all Parisian colleges were closed except for Louis-le-Grand (16), which was renamed École Égalité. With the teacher shortage and soaring inflation, a handful of institutions struggled on.

This left the Convention and the Paris Commune scrambling to find new ways to educate the young, and they rose (or at least attempted to rise) to the occasion. On 19 December 1793, the Bouquier Decree aimed to establish free, secular, and mandatory primary education—a remarkable move, though it never fully materialised due to lack of funding.

With France at war, the Convention turned public education towards the needs of a nation in crisis. Throughout 1793 and 1794, new scientific and technical programmes sprang up to meet urgent demands, combat food shortages, and push social progress. Thousands of students were trained in saltpetre refinement (vital for gunpowder), and scientific knowledge spread beyond chemists to artisans and tin workers. In the final months of Year II, a saltpetre refinement zone was set up, the École de Mars was founded to rapidly train young men in military techniques, and the École Centrale des Travaux Publics (future École Polytechnique) was established to develop engineers in military-technical fields.

The education display features a fascinating array of educational degrees, lists of primary school students, and instructor rosters. Although a bit more context on the educational upheaval would have been helpful, the artefacts themselves are intriguing. Placed in the context of the rest of the exhibit, it’s clear that the new educational system wasn’t just about breaking away from the Ancien Régime; it was also very deliberately and openly crafted to instil republican ideals. Nothing illustrates this better than the way Joseph Barra(17) was promoted as a model for students at the École de Mars.

And, of course, this section also showcases one of the most enduring legacies of the Revolution: the introduction of the metric system and modern standardised measurements.

4.3 The (lack of) Women in Year II

The women of Year II were not real women. They were symbols—or so the imagery from the era would have us believe. There is shockingly little about the actual experiences of women in the collective memory of Year II.

Women played active roles in the Revolution. They filled the Assembly’s tribunes as spectators, mobilised in the sections, founded clubs, joined public debates, signed petitions, and even participated in mixed societies. In many cases, they worked side by side with men to bring about the Republic of Year II. So where are they?

Well, they’re certainly not prominent in this exhibition—but that’s not the fault of the organisers. It’s a reflection of how the time chose to represent them. In revolutionary imagery, women became allegories: symbols of Liberty, wisdom, the Republic, or the ideal mother raising citizens for the state, often reduced to stereotypes and caricatures. Rarely were they depicted as part of the public sphere.

The absence of a serious discourse on women’s rights in this part of the exhibition speaks volumes and is true to the period itself. At the time, there was no cohesive movement for women’s rights, and while specific individuals pushed for aspects of female citizenship, these efforts lacked unity or a common cause. Eventually, being perceived as too radical, all women's clubs were closed in 1973.

4.4 Dechristianisation

In my view, dechristianisation was perhaps the greatest misstep of the various governments from 1789 onwards. Not because I think religion should be central to people’s lives—not at all—but because, in 18th-century France, it simply was essential for most. The reasoning behind this attack on religion was sound enough: no government wants to be beholden to a pope in Rome who had heavily supported the deposed king. But in practice, the application of this principle was far from effective.

By Year II, Parisian authorities were still grappling with the fallout from the Civil Constitution of the Clergy (1790), which had left Catholics split between two competing churches: the constitutional church, loyal to the Revolution, and the refractory church, loyal to Rome. Patriotic priests suspected refractory priests of using their influence to fuel counter-revolutionary sentiment—a suspicion that only intensified the general atmosphere of paranoia.

As tension mounted, it devolved, as these things often do, into outright destruction. On 23 October 1793, the Commune of Paris ordered the removal of all monuments that "encouraged religious superstitions or reminded the public of past kings." Religious statues were removed, replaced by images of revolutionary martyrs like Le Peletier, Marat, and Chalier (19), in an effort to supplant the cult of saints with the cult of republican heroes.

The exhibition presents this wave of destruction with artefacts from ruined religious statues, the most striking being the head of one of the Kings of Judah from Notre-Dame’s facade. These 28 statues were dragged down and mutilated in a frenzy against royalist symbols in 1793. . Ironically, they weren’t even French kings; they were Old Testament kings, supposedly ancestors of Christ—a fact that most people at the time were probably blissfully unaware of. But hey, destruction in the name of ignorance is nothing new, is it?

Many in the Convention and the Commune were atheists and enthusiastically supported the secularisation of public life. Unfortunately, they didn’t represent the majority of the French population. To bridge this gap, Robespierre proposed a "moral religion" without clergy, a way for citizens to unite and celebrate a shared, secularised liberty. In December 1793, the Convention passed a decree granting "unlimited liberty of worship," leading to the Festival of the Supreme Being, held in Paris and throughout France on 8 June 1794.

As with so much in Year II, the "Supreme Being" affair was a logical solution to a pressing problem that ended up blowing up in Robespierre’s face—by now, you might detect a pattern. But that’s a story for Part II of this already very long post.

5. Conclusion to Part 1

Overall, the exhibition presents the first two themes—A New Regime: The Republic and Paris: Revolution in Daily Life—in a balanced way, which I really appreciate. I was expecting a bit more sensationalism, given that Year II is known for its brutality, but instead, it provides a thoughtful overview of how the Republic was structured and the impact this had on Parisians.

The range of media and text offers a good dive into key points, especially on everyday life during the period. I didn’t listen to everything, but from what I saw, the explanations were well done. Naturally, since the exhibition is aimed at the general public, many aspects are simplified.

For younger audiences (pre-teens, perhaps?), the exhibit includes 11 watercolour illustrations by Florent Grouazel and Younn Locard. These two artists attempt to fill the gaps by depicting events from the period that lack contemporary representation (like the destruction of the Constitution with the “national sledgehammer” on 5 May 1793—an event documented but unillustrated at the time). For each scene, they created a young character as an actor or observer, sometimes just a witness to history, to make the scene more immersive. It’s a nice touch, though easy to overlook if you’re not paying close attention.

In Part II, I’ll share my thoughts on the remaining themes: Justice, Prisons and Execution Sites, and Beyond Legends. And yes, a lot of that will involve Thermidor—how could it not?

In the meantime, if you made it this far… well, I’m impressed!

Notes

(1) Year II: Refers to the period from 22 September 1793 to 21 September 1794 in the French Revolutionary calendar.

(2) Jacobins: A political group advocating social reform and, by 1793, strongly promoting Republican ideals. Most revolutionaries were, or had once been, members of the Jacobin club, though by Year II, Robespierre stood out as its most prominent figure.

(3) Girondins: A conservative faction within the National Convention, representing provincial interests and, to some extent, supporting constitutional monarchy. Key figures included Brissot and Roland.

(4) Sans-culottes: Working-class Parisians who championed radical changes and economic reforms to support the poor. The name “sans-culottes” (meaning "without knee breeches") symbolised their rejection of aristocratic dress in favour of working-class trousers.

(5) Enragés: An ultra-radical group demanding strict economic controls, such as price caps on essentials, to benefit the poor. Led by figures like Jacques Roux and, to some extent, Jacques Hébert, the Enragés urged the Convention to fully break from the Ancien Régime.

(6) Maximum Général: A 1793 law imposing price caps on essential goods to curb inflation and aid the poor. Though well-intended, it was difficult to enforce and stirred resentment among merchants.

(7) Indulgents: A faction led by Danton and Desmoulins advocating a relaxation of the severe repressive measures introduced in Year II, calling instead for clemency and a return to more moderate governance.

(8) Incompetence: At the Revolution’s outset, military positions were primarily held by nobles. By Year II, these noble officers were often dismissed due to mistrust, and their replacements—particularly in the civil conflict in the West—were frequently inexperienced, and some, quite frankly, incompetent.

(9) Levée en Masse: A mass conscription decree of 1793 requiring all able-bodied, unmarried men aged 18 to 25 to enlist. This unprecedented mobilisation extended to the wider population, with men of other ages filling support roles, women making uniforms and tending to the wounded, and children gathering supplies.

(10) Hérault de Séchelles: A lawyer, politician, and member of the Committee of Public Safety during Year II, known primarily for helping to draft the Constitution of 1793.

(11) Jean-Paul Marat: A radical journalist and politician, fiercely supportive of the sans-culottes and advocating revolutionary violence in his publication L’Ami du Peuple. Assassinated in 1793, he became the Revolution’s most famous martyr.

(12) Louis-Michel Le Peletier de Saint-Fargeau: A politician and revolutionary who voted in favour of the king’s execution and was assassinated in 1793 shortly after casting his vote, becoming a symbol of revolutionary sacrifice.

(13) Paris Commune: Not to be confused with the better-known Paris Commune of 1871, this Commune was the governing body of Paris during the Revolution, responsible for administering the city and playing a key role in revolutionary events.

(14) Montagnard Convention: The left-wing faction of the National Convention, dominated by Jacobins, which held power during the Revolution’s most radical phase and implemented the Reign of Terror.

(15) Sorbonne: Founded in the 13th century by Robert de Sorbon as a theological college, the Sorbonne evolved into one of Europe’s most respected centres for higher learning, particularly known for theology, philosophy, and the liberal arts. It was closed during the Revolution due to anti-clerical reforms.

(16) Louis-Le-Grand: A prestigious secondary school in Paris, temporarily renamed École Égalité during the Revolution. Notable alumni include Maximilien Robespierre and Camille Desmoulins.

(17) Joseph Barra: A young soldier killed in 1793 during the War in the Vendée, whose death was used as revolutionary propaganda to inspire loyalty and martyrdom among French youth.

(18) Civil Constitution of the Clergy: A 1790 law that brought the Catholic Church in France under state control, requiring clergy to swear allegiance to the government. This split Catholics between “constitutional” and “refractory” priests, heightening religious tensions.

(19) Joseph Chalier: A revolutionary leader in Lyon who supported radical policies. He was executed in 1793 after attempting to enforce these policies, later becoming a martyr for the revolutionary cause.

[anim-ttrpgs]

Songs for Eureka Sessions: Investigation Scenes (low-stakes) or Meal Scenes

Masterpost of Eureka song lists & how to choose good music for any TTRPG session.

Douglas' Blues - Parasite Eve II

Out of Phase - Parasite Eve

Alone in Town - Silent Hill 2

Reasoning - Death Note

Something Stirring - Scooby-doo

Snooping Around - Scooby-doo

Another Mystery - Scooby-doo

Pandering - Scooby-doo

Arriving at the Scene - Scooby-doo

Grounds of Mystery - Scooby-doo

Puzzle 1 - Puzzle Agent

Puzzle 2 - Puzzle Agent

Puzzle 3 - Puzzle Agent

Puzzle 4 - Puzzle Agent

Puzzle 5 - Puzzle Agent

Puzzle 8 - Puzzle Agent

Puzzle 11 - Puzzle Agent

Freshly Squeezed - Twin Peaks

The Zombie - Kolchak: The Night Stalker

Legacy of Terror - Kolchak: The Night Stalker

Mr. R I N G - Kolchak: The Night Stalker

Chopper - Kolchak: The Night Stalker

Deep Cover - Hotline Miami

A Stray Child - Silent Hill 3

Whirling-In-Rags - Disco Elysium

The Stalkers - Dredge

Little Dark Age (instrumental) - Mgmt

Kitty Horrorshow - Tenement

The Process - The Big O

Nevermore - autoisolation

Into the Mist - autoisolation

Clues 08 - L.A. Noire

Clues 04 – L.A. Noire

Safe Room - Signalis

Ritual – Signalis

Intro – Death Note

Max: Panama – Max Payne 3

E5M3 – Sigil

Max Payne Theme – Max Payne

Cannot Hear – Monster

Dogtective - Louie Zong

Clues 01 – L.A. Noire

Clues 02 – L.A. Noire

Floor 6, Please – Atrium Carceri

Norwegian Horror Saga – Manet

End of Small Sanctuary – Silent Hill 3

Fear of the Dark – Silent Hill

Tears of – Silent Hill

Otherside – Silent Hill

Delirious and Devoured – Manet

Aucun Cave

The Obsession Begins Tomorrow - Shadowdream

Der Angler – Bohren & Der Club of Gore

The First Pain – Heroin and Your Veins

Secret – Somewhere off Jazz Street

Ulterior Motives – autoisolation

Lights Out – Cities Last Broadcast

Street Tattoo – Bohren & Der Club of Gore

Constant Fear – Bohren & Der Club of Gore

Nighthawks – Lowering

Vendredi Noir – Manet

Radio Silence – Joal Fausto & Illusion Orchestra

Sand in Lungs – Heroin and Your Veins

Intoxication – Heroin and Your Veins

Bad Luck – Heroin and Your Veins

Full Moon and Dry Humour – Heroin and Your Veins

Miles to Midnight – Atrium Cerceri, Cities Last Broadcast, and God Body Disconnect

Sorry Sir, You Are in the Wrong Room – Atrium Carceri

Daisuke – Hotline Miami

Hotline – Hotline Miami

Crystals – Hotline Miami

Electric Dreams – Perturbator

It’s Safe Now – Hotline Miami

Interlude – Hotline Miami 2

Rust – El Huervo

Ghost Town – Parasite Eve II

Gentle, Two – Kairo

Untitled 2 – The Green Kingdom

Sigh of Relief – Parasite Eve II

Rain of Brass Petals – Silent Hill 3

Morning Calm – Silent Hill 2

Rusty Lake Theme – Victor Butzelaar

Guided Meditation – Old Future Fox Gang

Sherry’s Theme – Resident Evil 2

A Cold Day in Hell – Max Payne

Ada’s Theme – Resident Evil 2

Tailing a Lead – L.A. Noire

Mona: The Professional – Max Payne 2

Address Unknown – Max Payne 2

Hourglass – The Guest

Omniverse – The Guest

The Marshalling Yard (Latter Half) – Resident Evil 2

Bless This Mess – West of Loathing: Reckonin’ at Gun Manor

[samiiy20]

♡ 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧 ♡

𝑃𝑎𝑖𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔: Bang Chan x fem! reader 𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: Smut, a little bit of fluff 𝑊𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡: 1.8k 𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: unprotected sex (don't do it),masturbation, taste semen. I'm sorry if I forgot something

N/A: This is the last writing of the year 2023, I hope you enjoy it and I know there are still three days left but I want to thank you all for supporting me and reading me, I hope to continue writing for next year. ily <3

masterlist II tag list

This content NOT is for minors!!!

This is merely entertainment, this does not represent any real person.

It is forbidden to copy or translate my work.

English NO is my first language.

˚♡⋆｡˚♡⋆｡˚♡⋆｡˚♡⋆｡˚♡⋆｡˚♡⋆｡˚♡

You looked at the time again, it was already late and although Chan told you that it would only be a quiet dinner with the boys, you couldn't stop looking at your phone. You didn't want to bother him, maybe he was just having a good time and he forgot about all his worries.

You got into bed but worry wouldn't let you sleep, you walked around the house and tried to see something but your mind only thought about your boyfriend. You settled on the couch and covered yourself with a blanket, but just when you finally seemed to relax, a loud knock on the door alarmed you. You ran to open it and were surprised to see Han.

"Hi."

"What happened? everything is alright?" Before the boy could answer you you saw Lee Know appear and Changbin carrying a body between his shoulders “Chan?”

“Sweetheart…” Your boyfriend raised his head at your call and tried to break away to run into your arms, but the other two held him up before he fell to the floor.

“Damn, it's heavy,” Lee Know complained, holding his friend's arm around his neck. You finally reacted, leaving a space to tell them to pass.

The boys held on to the couch and let the drunk Bang Chan finally rest. You took a breath before Changbin apologized and explained to you that Chan had decided to order the most expensive bottle they had which ended with him drinking it all.

“Thank you very much for bringing it,” you walked them out, apologizing before glancing at your boyfriend, “I'll take care of him"

You closed the door and went to where your boyfriend was, in the time you had been with him you never thought about seeing him in this state, in reality it was very rare for him to get drunk, you wondered what happened to make him get like this. Tired, you sat next to him and stroked his hair while giving him a kiss on the cheek.

You heard him utter what seemed like incoherent words and you couldn't help but laugh a little, but as much as you wanted to let him rest he reeked of alcohol.

“Baby…” Bang Chan opened one eye at your call “let's go to the shower.”

“mhmhmh”

“I can't leave you here” You took his hand and with all your strength you stretched him out making him move a little “come on, I promise… you will feel better”

After struggling for what seemed like hours you managed to get him to the bathroom with promises, effort, sweat, and a few curses. You made him sit on the toilet while you prepared the tub.

Bang Chan was really serious and he just followed your movements without making any noise, waiting patiently for you to tell him what to do. It was strange for you to know this new phase, it was almost always him who took care of you and took care of you, but he didn't mind doing it, especially if he looked at you like a puppy waiting for a treat from him.

After making sure the water was cold you helped him get into the water and when his feet finally touched the water his body reacted and his skin crawled, but you helped him continue until he was completely submerged.

He seemed uneasy due to the change in temperature, you sat on the edge of the tub helping him wash his hair and rinse his arms watching his face change a little.

"do you feel better?"

“Yes” you stroked his hair, and he let his head fall into your legs, you felt a shiver in your body from the drops of water that fell on your bare skin “Thank you”

“You've taken care of me before, it's just fair that I do it once for you.”

Bang Chan smiled remembering the times you came home screaming and kissed your legs, regaining some reason. He looked up at your face and when he met your eyes he felt his heart beat rapidly, suddenly his body became hot and he felt nervous like the first times when he spoke to you.

"Dear…"

"What's happening?" The words seemed to be erased from his head and he went blank in a long time, you really were the most beautiful person in his eyes, he loved you so much that he would risk anything to have you by his side forever.

"I love you"

You widened your eyes and Bang Chan thought you would answer him with the same, but he didn't wait for you to burst out laughing.

“Are you still drunk?” You stood up and dried your hands as you wiped away an invisible tear. “Get out of there, you need to rest.”

Now calmer, you could finally rest knowing that your boyfriend was safe. You got tangled in the covers and closed your eyes when you felt Bang Chan's body next to you. You hadn't realized the tiredness in your body but it seemed like you could finally sleep, but hands hooked on your waist making you react.

"Baby…"

“I just want to feel you” You let him hold you and you settled down as you closed your eyes again to sleep, but his nose on your neck tickled you.

“Chan…”

“Mhm?”

“Let me sleep” you tried to move out of his arms but his grip on your waist only grew stronger, completely pressing your body against him, making you feel his chest on your back and his half-hard cock on your butt.

“Then do it” You growled, running away again without success and you just tried to ignore him, letting his hands get under the sweatshirt you were wearing as pajamas. You closed your eyes tightly trying not to focus on his fingers playing with your breasts, but his lips on your neck made you grit your teeth.

“Are you still drunk?”

“I'm completely sober my love” his tongue traced circles on your skin making you curse trying to withstand his provocations “are you sure you want to sleep?”

His other hand slid to your clothed pussy and he ran his hands over it making you moan.

“Yes…” You didn't know if it was the answer to his question or you just wanted him to continue but you just let yourself be carried away by the sensations of his hands causing your body. His mouth didn't stop and he sucked on your neck, leaving red marks on your skin so you would remember that night for the next few days.

You moved your hips, stroking his cock, making him moan near your ear, causing you to wet your panties. His hand massaged your breasts and squeezed one of your nipples while the other dipped into your shorts, feeling the wetness between your legs.

“Fuck… are you wet already?” Before you could respond, you felt his hand on your breasts slowly go up to your neck, pressing it a little, letting you rock your hips faster against him. “Do you want my cock in your little pussy, princess?”

You nodded, feeling him get rid of your clothes, letting his fingers get wet with your juices. You arched your back and clenched the sheets when she ran her fingers over your swollen clit and you moaned a little louder when she started moving it in small circles.

“I need to hear you” he squeezed your throat harder knowing that you liked it when he used his hands on you.

“Yes…” His fingers slid into your entrance without giving you time to process it before he started pumping two of them.

"You only know to say that?" Your mind couldn't think clearly with his fingers squeezing your throat while he moved the others in your tight pussy, you wanted to scream at him that you needed his cock but you could only blurt out his name while he fucked you to his whim.

"I want…"

“What do you want princess?” You felt the knot in your stomach unravel from the pleasure in your body before you responded and Bang Chan finally released his grip on your neck, letting you breathe “mmm… is that what you wanted?” fill my fingers with your semen?”

He removed his hand from your legs and you opened your mouth when he ran his fingers over your lips, tasting you on them. You caught your breath and turned your head a little to look at him, letting his mouth meet.

“I want your cock in my pussy, please” Bang Chan pulled away a little to release his cock and grab your leg.

Without wasting any time Bang chan got ready and shoved his cock into your pussy fitting his teeth into your shoulder as he bottomed out. You sighed in relief as you felt full and turned again to reach his lips.

“Never doubt how much I love you” along with his lips as his hips collided against you and began a slowly tortuous but precise rhythm.

His arms hooked around your waist without leaving the slightest space between his bodies, the air of his breaths mixed with the sound of his hips and the love between his hearts could be felt through the senses of him.

You were so devoted in mind and body to him that time passed very slowly, you didn't know if it was his hands massaging your clit or his cock hitting the sweet spot inside you or his hungry kisses or a mixture of everything that made your body tremble under his.

“Baby… I'm going to…”

“Just wait a little, I want to accompany you” the movements of his hips increased the sound of your moans, making the euphoria in his body rise rapidly.

“I can’t…” you begged, letting a tear fall as you tried to hold on.

“Do it, princess,” you moaned his name, surrendering your senses to the pleasure in your body, feeling Bang Chan's cock tremble inside you and spilling his seed inside you, mixing his juices.

You closed your eyes recovering from your orgasm, Bang chan stayed in the crook of your neck whispering over and over again that he loved you.

“Let's get clean”

“I want more…” you said, shaking your hips still with his cock in your pussy.

“I thought you wanted to rest” you turned and without giving him a chance to continue talking you kissed him. Bang chan smiled and took your waist, moving away a little, he turned you and placed himself on top of you. “Tell me, I want to listen to you.”

“I love you” he eased his cock into you slowly and you moaned.

"Again"

“I love you” his thrusts went in time with your words and you didn't stop moaning again and again until dawn.

“I love you too darling” Bang chan responded lying next to you while he covered you with the sheet. I kiss your forehead and imprison your body, finally letting you rest.

[cerastes]

I tried the desert but got my shitmud rocked so I am bad at this game type so just what is the skill floor for it, do I need a large list of e2 units (I suck at that cause my squad is if it works dont try new ops and its been working for a long time)

RA2 is not only very endgame, it also seeks to challenge you with lots of moving parts that make you immensely strong if you know how they work, but conversely the game mode is balanced around the fact that you have access to these incredibly powerful tools and are expected to use them. Not master them, for sure, or even be great with them, just use them; I have made a joke out of RA2 several times on my stream, my people over there can testify when I say RA2 is easy when you know what you're doing.

You do need a lot of units to get the most out of the game mode, not just to deploy them in different fights to counter specific bosses' weaknesses and counter their strengths -- one boss is extremely strong against blocking comps but weak against structures, another is the opposite and wrecks structures but is weak against AoE and a solid blocker, some have sky high RES and low DEF, some have sky high DEF and low RES, one boss fully heals if you don't kill its phase 2 in time and goes back to phase 1, another boss has huge Arts aoe, and so on -- but also to make the most out of powerful Logistic bonuses in which you stow away Operators for bonuses depending how high level they are and what class they are, and expeditions for extra resources every 6 days, or on a 3 day cycle since you can have two teams out like this.

There's food recipes that give you immense stat bonuses and other advantages like extra block, more SP recovery, status resistance, reduced DP and redeployment cost, ignore DEF or RES per attack, and so on. There's a multitude of tools like 12 seconds of Stun with Mr. Booms, applying Freeze with Ice Blaster IIs, extra SP charging with Support Stations, and lots more. There's incredibly powerful structures like Urban Barriers which redirect your enemy's intended path in Blue Box maps, net launchers that Bind for several seconds, smoke launchers that inflict 10 seconds of high Fragile, and most powerful of them all, your own freaking ranged tiles on demand.

You are expected to interact with all of these aspects to properly succeed in RA2. Not master them, not become great with them, just interact with them, in addition to having a varied team. Critical Contentions, which is completely optional, requires a deeper mastery of these tools, but RA2 baseline? Just using them at all will make you much stronger.

...Now, with respect and because this is not our first dance together, I'll immediately say this since I know it's coming: If you really don't like being forced to use other units besides the small team you like and want, then don't play the game mode but also don't complain that the game is badly designed because it doesn't let you clear everything with the same team. I very much dislike that complaint because the game could not possibly be more explicit in its intent that you use different teams, adjust your strategy and experiment. Out of all gacha games, Arknights is the sole game that actually accommodates this explicit drive for variance by outfitting you with several strong welfare units and a spread of 3*s that are actually very strong and completely viable without needing you to get lucky at the gacha. If you decide you like to play the game with just your chosen few, that's completely valid and I would even say borders on adding a challenge, go for it, but don't complain that the game fails in its design when it doesn't let you clear either by lack of skill or because you decided to go against the grain of its explicit intent for you to use varied teams. I do not respect that complaint in the slightest and I do not wish to engage with it.

[r0ttenhearts]

end of summer blues II

tossing and turning in bed wasn’t uncommon for thoma lately. even with ayaka by his side most nights, restless nights awake would haunt him. it wasn’t that his sheets felt too warm or his pillow was placed the wrong way. it was the itching feeling he would get every time he expected to see your sleeping form beside him, rather than ayaka’s.

it had been a month since he last spoke to you. the angry tears in your eyes and the words you didn’t say to him as you cut him off. he knew you would’ve found out eventually, but he didn’t think you’d leave without a word. his many attempts to reach out to you would go ignored. every new account he’d make to message you would be blocked as soon as he hit the request button.

with a heavy sigh, his eyes closed shut. he still had a new life ahead of him. one that didn’t include you.

sleep eventually found him and he found you in his state of unrest. there he stood in front of your bedroom door. the same scratches and marks on your bedroom door brought a slight smile to his face as he slowly opened the door. the familiar creaking of your bedroom door didn’t phase you as you stared at your lap, away from him.

the nostalgia punched thoma as he looked around your room. the same photographs of himself and you were still taped to your mirror, as well as the plushie he had won you in a festival. it was as if time had stopped since he last stood in this room.

“hey, (y/n).” he said softly, taking a seat next to you. he took a glance at your lap and noticed a more recent photo you two had taken. it was the last one he had taken with you at the summer festival. the wide smiles in the frame were perfectly captured in time. he still remembered the warmth he felt once he clicked the button to capture the moment.

he inhaled sharply as he watched your fingers tear up the photograph into little pieces, fluttering into your lap. “it’s you.” you said flatly. thoma sighed, shifting closer to you.

“i didn’t want things to go this way, (y/n).” he breathed out. the guilt was overwhelming him, and your indifference to him was bothering him more than he imagined it would. “but you knew it would end this way, didn’t you, thoma?”

your words shook him to his core. he knew it would damage what little remained of your friendship. but he had hope that your need for nostalgia and yearning for the past would help you look past that and forgive him, like you always did.

“i’m sorry (y/n). i still wanted to be your friend after it all. i fucked up, i know. but you know how i am.” he laughed dryly at that, your gaze finally turning to meet him.

“that doesn’t make it okay, thoma. you led me on.”

“i didn’t lead you on, i told you i wasn’t sure.” his fist clenched as he remembered your anger. the way you screamed at him that night that you were done with the game he played. “i’m not trying to be a bad person right now, (y/n).. i miss you.” he admitted, his shoulders slumping.

you laid back on your bed, hair sprawled out around you. the ripped up pieces of the photo were now slowly falling onto the floor as thoma watched it. he heard you sigh as you turned over to face him. “i tried you know? i really did. but you didn’t seem to want anything to do with me anymore. so i gave up. is it a crime to give up, thoma?”

“it’s not.” he whispered, laying back with you. he didn’t take your hand as he would have back when your friendship still meant something. “do you think you can ever forgive me, (y/n)?”

“i’ll never forgive you, thoma.”

taglist: @jaderose18 @lelemnh @linkookie197 @foxlover1144 @sparklylanddetective @

[charlotte-of-wales]

“Buckingham Palace's £369m refurbishment means no state visits until 2027”

There will be no more state visits held at Buckingham Palace for the next three years, as it undergoes one of the biggest upheavals in its history.

After next month's visit by the Emir of Qatar has taken place, all state visits will take place at Windsor Castle until 2027, due to Buckingham Palace's ongoing ten-year, £369 million refurbishment, which means most of its grandest rooms will be closed.

It comes as building works at the 775-room palace have resulted in the King moving out of his private office space in the north wing in what was previously Queen Elizabeth II's private apartment.

Charles, 76, has now moved his office, meeting rooms and dining area where he has afternoon tea daily, to the Belgian Suite on the ground floor of the palace's west-facing Garden Wing.

The suite of rooms he is now using includes the Orleans Room, the room in which he was born on November 14, 1948.

The King has decided to personally fund the redecoration of his private suite of rooms in the north wing, which are not expected to be ready for use until the end of 2027. The rest of the palace's refurbishment is being funded by the taxpayer, but those close to the King say he is "mindful that the public purse should not pay for personal touches".

Royal sources say Charles will continue to use the palace as "monarchy HQ" in the future.

While the palace used to insist that the King and Queen would definitely move from Clarence House to live at Buckingham Palace when the refurbishment is complete, royal sources now concede his private rooms will be redecorated only for "potential residential occupation".

In 2017, The Sunday Timesreported that Charles planned to give up Buckingham Palace as a royal home when he became King. Clarence House strongly denied the plan at the time and said in a statement: "Buckingham Palace will remain the official residence of the monarch." The same stance was reiterated five years later.

Royal sources who know Charles and Camilla have said they are both "very comfortable" at Clarence House, previously occupied by the Queen Mother and a short walk from Buckingham Palace. "I know he is no fan of 'the big house', as he calls the palace," a source said. "He doesn't see it as a viable future home or a house that's fit for purpose in the modern world."

Another royal source said: "It is certainly true that Camilla doesn't want to live at Buckingham Palace."

The Prince of Wales, who lives with his family at Adelaide Cottage on the Windsor estate and Anmer Hall, Norfolk, also agrees that the palace is not suitable for modern family life.

A friend of the King, said: "This is the gradual shifting of monarchy. There was a time when people said 'if the [latel Queen doesn't live at Buckingham Palace, then what's the point of Buckingham Palace?' The King is mindful that it will continue to be monarchy HQ with the advantage that he can open it up and make it even more accessible to the public in the future —it's win-win."

Charles and Camilla will continue to host some smaller receptions at Buckingham Palace in the Picture Gallery and other state rooms for part of next year, but those rooms will also close during 2025. After this closure, all royal receptions will move to St James's Palace or Windsor Castle until the palace fully re-opens in 2027.

Over the next two years, the palace's grandest rooms will go through "phased closures" for renovations, starting with the White Drawing Room, the Music Room, the Blue Drawing Room and the State Dining Room on the palace's "garden side". The Ballroom, where state banquets are traditionally held, will be renovated next, followed by state rooms on the palace's "Quad Side" including the Throne Room and the Green Drawing Room.

Building work will be temporarily "paused" during the summer months to allow the traditional summer opening of the state rooms to the public, and the annual themed exhibition, to proceed as usual from July to September.

Tours of the East Wing, including the Centre Room which features the famous palace balcony, were limited to 20 people at a time, and tickets sold out within hours. Charles has authorised a significant increase in availability for next year's tours, as part of his "determination to improve and encourage public access to Buckingham Palace, while retaining its central role as the operational HQ for the monarchy", according to a palace source.

When he was Prince of Wales, Charles's plan to open up the royal residences when he became King, transforming them from "private places to public spaces" was revealed. Earlier this year, he opened seven rooms of Balmoral Castle to the public for the first time, inviting visitors into the royal family's private Aberdeenshire home where they spend the summer holidays.

The final stages of the palace's refurbishment will be funded by a temporary increase in the sovereign grant, which provides funding for the royal family's official duties and maintenance of the royal palaces and is calculated as a proportion of the profits from the Crown Estate land and property empire.

A palace source said: "The temporary uplift to the sovereign grant commencing next year is an instalment to fund the completion of the palace reservicing project - being the essential preservation and protection of an historic asset for the nation, including the phase of works now commencing. It is not a permanent increase or for general expenditure. This will enable the ten-year project to be delivered on time and on budget."

[darkdemeter]

☾ phases collection issue #2 IN THE ARMS OF YOUR ENEMY

⚤ Wanda Maximoff x GN/Female/Male Werewolf!Reader SMUT 18+ MINORS DNI — light bondage — MxF version pairing — FxF version pairing — unprotected sex — P in V sex — profanity — pet name "Lamb" — usage of the term "slut" amidst sex — light/alluded breeding kink — reader receiving (male and female variants) — bit of excessive cum — mention of marking — possessive reader — slight stalkerish reader — Hydra agent! reader — enemies/lovers with benefits — I think that's it? ✎ 3.9k Once again, Wanda will find that she can't exactly keep the wolf out, and she'll find herself back in your arms; no matter how much she detests the idea you're an agent of Hydra.

✎

↳ MASTERLIST | ↳ TAGLISTS ────────────────────────

II.  Any wolf can forego the hunt of its prey. It takes a particular beast to continue hunting the single lamb that escaped it once. A sickening delight in the torment it brings upon the victim. And no matter what, the lamb’s scent only draws the wolf closer. 

   New locks, new keys to accompany those new locks, new means of security. Whatever she could get her hands on. Was she wrong to leave the compound, in search of a place of independence? 

  It’s grown quiet the past two weeks, going on three. She can hope, and only hope, that this means she is finally free. But she has plenty of reasons to doubt. 

  Keys in hand she plugs it into the lock and twists, entering her apartment. Simple, the floorplan didn’t mess around in trying to make the space something it’s not. Cosy but simple and within budget. Immediately to her right is the open concept kitchen, an L shaped counter anchored to the wall, the basic appliances with it and an island countertop at its centre, completing the design. 

  To her left, the curtains are almost drawn to the close, leaving only a spying gap open above the small dining table and beige coloured booth seats. Ahead of her is a wooden beamed door frame, twice the size of her front one. It enters the modest lounge room, where a boxed fireplace sits idly in the corner, unlit until the nearing winter begins to settle in. For her piece of mind, a TV sits on a dark cherry wooden cabinet, a box of old, collected sitcom discs and a dvd player go hand in hand together. 

  She’d taken to making the space truly her own. Here, she isn’t the experimented girl Hydra made her to be. Here, she isn’t a woman who’s feared for her abilities. In this apartment, she is just Wanda Maximoff. A normal, young woman who enjoys cooking heritage meals for dinner - with a recent habit of having takeout at least once a fortnight - going out shopping towards the weekend with Natasha and watching her favourite sitcoms.

  But over the last few months, this spot has also attracted something far more sinister. Something that stalks her from the dark alleyways and winding streets. A monster who she knows to be the enemy of the Avengers. Her enemy. An agent of Hydra. 

  Still… she found herself in your arms again and again. She recalls the reverberting moans trapped within the confines of these very walls. The lengths of pleasurable extortion you’d go to for her to reveal secrets and confidential information.

  And in turn, you kept her out of Hydra’s reach, away from getting their hands on her again. Under your protection, her freedom remained intact. 

  Wanda strips herself of her coat and bag, eyes scanning the lounge room and catching an obscured form occupying the armchair. 

  “Hey Nat,” she greets, tone calm and unaltered by concern. Natasha had mentioned she was going to stop by for a visit sometime that week. 

  “Hey, Wanda,” Natasha’s voice replies, voice slightly tuned with a friendly purr. 

  “What you been up to?” Wanda asks. She grabs the bag of groceries and places them on the island, caught in her own world until the colour in her cheeks drains, the warmth grows cold and in her stomach grows an ominous pit. 

  “Been watching– you.”

  Wanda feels as though the floor will swallow her at any moment, and at this point, that would be a relief. Her eyes land back on the mistaken identity’s form, elbow propped up on the chair’s arm, a small device sits in the palm of a gloved hand. Your gloved hand. 

  With a roll of your thumb, you click the device off and let your arm drop, manoeuvring yourself to shift in your place. 

  Wanda finds the hellish pits of amber that reside brightly in her dark lounge room, the day itself looming with stormy clouds. Now with the late evening, darkness settled in far more quickly. 

  Your lips stretch wide, almost ear to ear like the cheeky cheshire, but Wanda is not amused one bit by your visit in particular. Anyone else would have been fine. Just not you. 

  “Been ignoring my calls, little Lamb. Just came by to… check in,” you purr, voice deeply seated in its obsessive fever. 

  “U–uh huh…” 

  Your chin turns on its axis, brows knitting in your faux confusion. “You sound concerned.”

  “Wishful thinking is all.” The words came out before she could even process them. Her hand claps over her mouth, taken aback with a gasp.

  Your tongue clicks to the roof of your mouth as you pull yourself from the chair, height now towering over Wanda, even at a distance. “Sweetheart, I’ve been worried. It’s as though you’ve been trying to keep me out.”

  Wanda offers in showing kind a pearly smile, flustered and seemingly dumbfounded by the absurdity of your question. As if she was trying to keep you out… she can’t let you catch on. 

  “Keep you out? What?" Her arms fold over her chest. A nervous tactic, one she often defects to whenever she’s plagued by doubt or fear. You duck your chin in indication towards her front door. 

  “New locks,” you scoff with a shake of your head, “if you’re really going through these measures, at least amuse me by making it just a little bit hard.”

  Wanda’s jaw grows slack, eyes bearing into yours with that radiant flare of fear. The trait one that often arouses you. She portrays it well. Makes the hunt more fun for you. 

  “I… I don’t…” She cannot bring a single reason to mouth, her tongue tied with the thread of deceit so easily discernible, it shouldn’t be as funny as you find it. 

  With little else, her fingers move, taut and rigid in their slow, methodical dance but you catch on far too quickly than she can begin to halt.

  Hand loosening the cord of your leather belt, you swiftly disarm her crafty hands before she could work to send you flying back. 

  You scold her with a haughty tut, “Ah, ah, ah!” You grin widely as you bind her hands above her head and force her back against the front door with a booming thud. 

  “I’ll be the one using my hand, little Lamb.” Your coo is a sickening coil of sinister delight, taken away in your sheer excitement of the hunt she has become accustomed to seeing in the reflective glint of your eyes. 

  With one hand, you continue to pin her tied wrists over her, your other raises towards your mouth where your fanged canines nip teasingly at the leathery texture, stripping your bare hand free, you toss the glove onto the countertop. 

  “So I wanna know,” you sigh deeply, “what’s this all about? Hm?”

  With every movement of your fingers, she feels her pants loosen, the button and zip to her jeans failing to keep your touch out of reach, soon enough you’re snaking beneath her panties. She moans when your coarse thumb pad drags over her clit, excitement fills her blood and heat brims under her skin. 

  Her cheeks grow flushed and her folds slicken in the tormenting delight you bring her. The dangerous allure she finds herself drawn to. Back in the arms of her enemy. Incapable to be free of. 

  She squirms against the door when you roll her clit in slow, firm circles, growling against the shell of her ear. 

  “If you want to cum, you’ll need to answer a few questions for me.” 

  Her hips jerk forward suddenly, instinctively, buckling under the coursing pleasure flowing through her body. Unable to deny the flood of desire you bring her to. She moans lowly. “I… I just wanted– to keep you out.”

  “Why?”

  “Because–” she hisses as your fingers run the line of her aroused, wet folds. “Because you’re my enemy.”

  You hum lowly at her answer. “And this concerns you now?”

  “The Avengers will catch on. We can’t—”

  She freezes instantly at the baring of your teeth, throat coiled with a deep, throaty snarl. “If anyone thinks they’ll come between us, I’ll fucking kill them.”

  “Please…” Her voice is shattered by her broken resolve to remain strong and defiant to the effects of your carnal activity, fingers drawing your sharpened claws from their nail beds, you drag them slowly over the lips of her soaking entrance. She pushes her hips forward again with her simple plea.

  “Ah, ah,” you hiss coldly, “you’ve been ignoring my calls and messages, Lamb. Very foolish of you.”

  “I-I’m sorry.”

  You scoff now and your thumb stops in toying with her sensitive bulb, bringing her to whine loudly, giving away just how needy she was. 

  “I think you can do better than that.”

  “I can, I can.” Her words are breathlessly urgent in their tone, it almost takes you by surprise by the way her green eyes traverse downwards between you. Yet her eyes don’t plead her case to continue getting her off; the lustful glaze in her eyes offer to get you off. 

FEMALE

 Wanda sinks to her knees, her arms raised high above her and still in your hold, she stares up at you with anticipation. She’s hellbent on this little mission of hers. Amused, you chuckle and with expert navigation, you unbuckle the front of your pants and tug down enough to reveal your cunt. Wanda aches her head forward, her tongue balances the line of anticipation that leaves you in its wake. 

  With a soft, melodic noise, she moves her tongue to curl and lick at your clit, your muscles tense and your core tightens, uttering curses under your breath, it takes everything in you not to pull her head forward and bury her between your strong legs. Still, your hand curls tightly around the leather strap of your belt in warning and restraint. 

  “Better get that mouth working, Lamb,” you growl deeply, the sound causing a shiver to wrack her spine visibly and she bows her head forward more. Her lips and tongue work in tandem to each other, sliding over the aroused slickness of your folds, clit tormented pleasantly by her mouth, every so often her warm beth beats against your pussy. 

  “Fuck, girl,” you rasp to hide the otherwise pitiful whine clawing its way up your throat. “C’mon, give it to me like the good slut you are.”

  She mewls against your cunt. She’s teasing you, just easing her tongue along the sliver of your entrance but not delving any further than that, overall she pays more attention to your clit, every so often her nose nuzzling it playfully. 

  Any other time, you’d enjoy and be amused by her little game, but right now she’s fucking toying with you. 

  You buck your hips aggressively with a sharp hiss as her teeth nip dangerously close. “Oh, you want to go about it that way?” you rumble and she coos, tone innocent despite the eyes saying something else. Spelling mischief. 

  You hoist her up by the tied juncture of her hands and drag her over to the lonesome kitchen island. 

  If she was going to play games then so were you. It’s effortless the way you slam her atop the counter, her body squirming and writhing, but you pin her down and she freezes, breath ceasing to exist in her lungs. 

  “You cornered yourself, Lamb. Now you gotta lie down and take it. And I won’t be kind.”

  You can feel in the way her throat bobs that she swallows both pride and realisation, to come to the new revelation and the error of her ways. If only she’d been a little kinder. A little bit more merciful. Because she knew you were never one of true mercy.

  She breathes deeply as you seize hold of her legging and rip them down, panties along with them and drop them to the floor. She won’t be needing them anytime soon. 

  “W-wait,” she gasps only for her words to die on her begging tongue, her back arcs up, body coiling to the ignition of your touch, fingers rough against the cove between her thighs, she moans for more. 

  But much like her, you refuse to give her exactly what she wants. Her clit is the subject of your torture, thumb rolling in slower circles you’d used before and your other fingers trace the moist line of her pussy that clenches with excitement; with hope of them sinking into her depths. 

 She says your name then, your attention drawn to the pronunciation of it and you groan with a twisted smirk. 

  “Please, d-don’t do this,” she sighs lowly, “I-I need you. Badly…”

  “Mm, should have thought about that before you decided to be a cheeky lil’ slut.”

  You slip your middle finger into her without warning, her face contorted in brutal pleasure, she arches further and bounces her hips, breath growing hot and quicker. “Y–es! Yes!”   You add a second finger and then your ring finger, each one touching her spongy walls and stretching her. Each touch stokes the fire of her growing orgasm and she chases it with everything she has; however you’re not going to allow her to revel in the sweetened high of her release. 

  If she wants to cum around your fingers, she’s going to have to really, really beg for it this time. She curses you and praises you, your name a sultry chant playing on repeat and its a song you will never tire of hearing. If her hands weren’t restrained by your belt, she’d be digging her fingers into your arms like a cat clawing a scratching post, her legs spread further for your touch to exceed beyond the bounds they reach now.

  “Right there, r-right there! O–oh fuck!” She’s crying out, streams of tears pave the way to her euphoric torture. 

  You know she’s getting close. Her body, each a telltale sign, she thinks you’re going to let her cum.

  “You wanna cum, Lamb?”

  “Yes… yes, yes…”

  Your teeth graze the curve of her neck and elicit a shocked gasp from her throat, though her hips keep rocking to the motion of your thrusting fingers, claws scraping the length of her hot, tight walls.

  “Then let me mark you, Sweetheart.”

  “Wh-what?”

  You groan at this, eyes rolling with a snarl. “C’mon, I know you want to. Quit being a fucking tease and let me have one bite.”

  Her voice is weak, wheezing on the teetering of her arousal and shock.

  “We can’t— fuck, Wolf! L-let me cum!” 

Pushing her body further into your fingers, you pull your hand away, fingers on the verge of retracting completely and your thumb flicks her clit until she yelps.

  “I don’t think you’re being very fair, Wanda Maximoff,” you growl, amber eyes burning with the intensity of a third degree. 

  It’s little wonder why you feel this dark seed of possessiveness fester inside your soul. At first, you thought it naught but Hydra’s doing that fucked up the natural wiring of your brain, scrappng way the wolf’s more tame and pack orientated habits, only to leave the rabid nature to maim and kill. 

  But now you’re so that those natural instincts are there still. Fried and seriously altered into some twisted version, but still there. 

  You came to recognise that your little obsession was more in depth than you originally predicted. Wanda Maximoff, Hydra’s once experiment and now enemy, is your fated mate. A wild night of desperately relieving yourself over and over again, like a drug had poisoned your body, all you could think about was Wanda. 

  Now she wasn’t giving you what you wanted. To mark her, to show that whoever fucked around would find out. That if anyone touched her, they were dead.

 You withdraw your thrusting fingers right as she is about to be delivered to her sweet release, denied, she almost screams in protest. 

  “I was… I was so close,” she seethes, “Why’d you stop?”

   With a wolfish huff, you push your fingers inside her to a still and she swears you drag her down the counter. 

  “If you refuse to let me mark you, Lamb, then I’ll find a way for you to have my pups. And you’ll have no choice but be sent into the arms of your enemy.”

MALE

  Wanda sinks to her knees, her arms raised high above her and still in your hold, she stares up at you with anticipation. She’s hellbent on this little mission of hers. Amused, you chuckle and with expert navigation, you loosen the constraining pressure around your hardened cock, letting it spring free. Already, your beady tip grazes across her plump lips, swollen with your feverish need, you hoarsely grunt. “Get to it, Lamb.”

  Her tongue brushes the underside of your cock and you groan, eyes screwing tightly together the further along her breath comes over you, slowly sinking your length between her parted lips. Her cheeks hollow to accommodate your girth, moaning a muffled sound. 

  She pauses halfway, throat tightening around your intruding tip and your hips stutter, the force of willpower to not cum down her throat right then bringing a pleasured grimace to form over your face. “Look at you,” you grin widely, “on your knees like a go little slut.”

  She moans louder, the sound bouncing your cock in her mouth. You sink deeper until she’s taken all she can, almost swallowing your entire cock. In her eyes, the brimming of tears well into a glossy curtain that spill over at the first thrust, slow but hard, she chokes around your size. 

  “That’s right– fuck! Take it, fucking hell, you’re mouth is hot.” You’re panting heavily as your thrusts grow in punctuated speed, hand coiling around her bound wrists tightly, your other finds itself around her throat, feeling each time your cock delve down the tunnel of her throat. 

  She mewls, either in protest or plea, her thighs clench together in her position, tearful eyes blurred between complete darkness and the illuminated view of your hips driving forward, your cock moving up and down her throat with rapid succession as you chase your high. 

  “S-s-so b-big…” Her words come out muffled, barely audible as she gulps around your length, moans growing higher in pitch into whines. 

  “Yeah,” you rasp, “fucking so big, you’re choking ‘round me.”

  She nods eagerly and groans when you piston your hips harder, the swelling in your balls giving away that the fun is almost over. 

  With a grunt you withdraw from Wanda’s mouth, lips parted wide and strings of saliva and precum coat the edges of her mouth. Her eyes find yours burning a thousand degrees hotter into her soul, scorching it with such intensity, it took everything in her not to squirm beneath you with need.

  “As much as I’d love to see you swallow my load, I’d rather have your cunt do that.”

  You can smell the sweet nectar between her legs, her core undoubtedly soaked, you pull her up by the leather instrument around her wrists. You push her legging and panties down her legs until they pool at her ankles, ushering her to kick away the unnecessary clothing. 

  She shivers, voice hoarse as you back her against the door again, the whisper of your name is softened by the feathery texture of her lust. She’s fucking drenching you tip that lines her awaiting entrance, greedily, she squeezes around nothing and pouts, whining for you to hurry up, to fuck her hard and raw until she’s dripping with your cum. 

  “Shh, Lamb,” you coo through a bite of clenching teeth, pushing inside her pussy with a relieved sigh, for a second time, you have to fight to keep yourself from blowing your load. 

  She moans deeply into the side of your neck. Looping her arms around your neck, she’s caged between you and the door, and you begin to eagerly rut your hips. 

  The modest apartment’s four walls once again are the cells containing your time of ecstasy together, moans bouncing off the balls and heavy bouts of panted breath and slapping skin drive you each to the edge of your own insanity. 

  There Is only the need for more. None of you want to stop this arrangement no matter how conflicting it can be to your respective parties. The Avengers and Hydra can war and raise fire with one another all they want, you’re just taking what’s yours at this point. 

  And if this is the end of your time, you’re going to fucking enjoy every bit of it that’s Wanda before you’re put six feet under. 

  “Fuck- f-fuck, don’t stop,” Wanda breathlessly chants, “right there, oh shit— don’t–”

  You moa deeply and pick up the pace behind your thrusts that ruthlessly rut Wanda back against the door with loud patterns of thumps. 

  “Fuck, Baby– you’re so tight…”

  “I’m so close!” she mewls lousy in her announcement, her head tilted to the side and the juncture of her neck exposed. Your teeth graze it and she gasps. 

  “C’mon, I know you want to,” you growl with a jerk of your hips, your tip kissing her cervix roughly to press the air from her lungs. 

  “But–” She’s cut off by the new, brutal angle you choose, viciously you rock her hips upwards until she’s practically sliding up and down against the door, her nails bite into the leather of the belt and her legs encircle your waist, momentarily losing balance and following the pace of your movement. 

  “Wolf, please!” 

  “Shit, cum for me, Wanda, cum for me.” 

  She breaks for your command and cries out in a flurry of stringed curses, her orgasm a crashing flood that engulfs and squeezes around your cock. “That’s it, Sweetheart… that’s it.”

  She relaxes against you while you aid her in riding out her high, eyes dazed in her post-orgasmic state, she hiccups and gasps with each wave of thrusts that continue to surge through her. 

  Again, you tease her, teeth bared against the flesh of her exposed neck. “One little bite…”

  “W-we can’t—”

  Groaning lowly, you retort, “You’re such a fucking tease.”

  It’s little wonder why you feel this dark seed of possessiveness fester inside your soul. At first, you thought it naught but Hydra’s doing that fucked up the natural wiring of your brain, scrappng way the wolf’s more tame and pack orientated habits, only to leave the rabid nature to maim and kill. 

  But now you’re so that those natural instincts are there still. Fried and seriously altered into some twisted version, but still there. 

  You came to recognise that your little obsession was more in depth than you originally predicted. Wanda Maximoff, Hydra’s once experiment and now enemy, is your fated mate. A wild night of desperately relieving yourself over and over again, like a drug had poisoned your body, all you could think about was Wanda. 

  Now she wasn’t giving you what you wanted. To mark her, to show that whoever fucked around would find out. That if anyone touched her, they were dead. 

  Your thrusts grew sloppy, the rhythm lost to your desperation to the swelling knot as your release came upon you, you whine lowly. The tip of your cock erupts violently with spurted rivers of your cum, far exceeding that of the average, human male, Wanda’s womb becomes heavy with your seed. 

  “Sh–shit!” Wanda moans quietly with a hiccup when your knot ties against her entrance, locking you in place inside her tight cunt. 

  “If you refuse to let me mark you, Lamb, then you’ll mother my pups. And you’ll have no choice but be sent into the arms of your enemy.”

@alexawynters @alyciaddict @simpforlizzie @literaturedog

[slowd1ving]

II. HOW DOES ONE DEFINE A NIGHTMARE? .・゜DAN HENG

One of the theories pushed forward in this universe—a common conjecture between scientists throughout the stars—is that there are disturbances in a system that is being observed, versus one that is not. This is astutely named the observer effect. And this situation is the first proper example he’s seen of that. Dan Heng feels that as soon as he takes his eyes off you, you’ll phase back to a space between these dimensions, like some specter there are only myths about. when data nerd Dan Heng finds the forbidden dictionary and masters the hidden art: synonyms male! engineer reader warnings: eventual nsfw, kind of but not really spoilers to dan heng's backstory, amab reader

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

DRINKER OF THE MOON, DEVOURER OF DREAMS MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

PREVIOUS PART . 　⁺ NEXT PART

There are many ways to encapsulate his sleeping hours. 

He doesn’t quite want to delve into all the different synonyms that essentially make up harrowing.  

Nightmare after nightmare plagues him. There’s the echoes from his past incarnation— feeling the terror, the loss, the anguish (yet never actually knowing the context behind this pain). There’s the haunting impression of being alone—a world of nothingness, in which he is bound by chains and fated to an eternity of stagnancy. There’s that pair of beastly eyes—so utterly, undeniably red as the insatiable sword pierces straight through his sternum. 

It’s no surprise when he wakes up with cold sweat plastering his hair to his temples and his clothes sticking uncomfortably to his skin. 

Even on the Astral Express, the torturous sleep continues to chase after him. 

He stumbles out of the archives; cold air hits him as he pads towards the kitchen, while the sweat still glistening against dermis only exacerbates his shivering. That’s why his vision is narrowed to only the door of the dining car and beyond—it’s appalling as a guard, but nothing out of the ordinary for just a man in this tender moment. 

He can barely see, so excuse him for not being aware of his surroundings. 

He doesn’t mean to crash into you. Really, he doesn’t. One minute he’s dragging his sluggish feet just fine against the plush carpeted floors—the next he’s stumbling over seemingly nothing, falling, falling, into what he knows will be a cold metal wall—

Except it’s not. 

He’s just ploughed himself into your side, and you fumble.

It’s a strange experience. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt that sort of sensation before—the embarrassing trip and fall—but what’s even stranger is the proximity of the position he’s entangled himself into. 

He’s shoved you against the wall, and is currently wrapped around your shoulders as he attempts to stand up again. Except he can’t; either he’s lost it completely, or he’s still recovering from that nightmare. Either are equally plausible. 

“Ow,” you comment, far too late. 

He wants to bury himself in space rubble. 

“You make all your journeys to the kitchen this way?” you add, and it’s a lethal hit. 

“I’m so sorry,” he manages to choke out, partly in panic, partly in apology, and partly in pure and utter mortification. He somehow pulls himself together enough to push himself off you and into leaning against the wall, but his eyes have been blown wide and his cheeks flushed in such embarrassment he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from this. 

Gone is his stoic image. If he showed his face on the Luofu in this state, he thinks he might get away with it since he’s so revoltingly unrecognisable at this moment.

“All good, man.” It’s delivered with such casual finality he can’t help but stare. Certainly, this has helped him forget the horrors of just minutes prior, but at what cost?

“You had a nightmare?”

This question is also delivered in the same, offhand tone that offers him the choice of simply remaining silent. But it’s not like he wants to do that—this, after all, is only one part of the already-too-few interactions he has with you. 

“You could say that.” It’s not enough. The words don’t come out the way he wants: all shaky and so unlike his normal, composed cadence that he almost lets out one of his dry, sardonic laughs. 

He’s not following you as you slip into the dining car. 

When you glance back, he’s still against the wall: still thinking, still gaining his sense of self back. 

“You, uh, need a hand to get to the kitchen?” 

Now, you’re awkward. Had he not made himself into a fool, he mightn’t have witnessed this particular layer beneath the sculpture. 

“That would be appreciated,” he lets out; the words stumble over themselves in one big mess. He agrees to your suggestion, totally for the support, totally for the additional stability, definitely not to be closer to you for once—

Look. 

You offered in the first place, so why wouldn’t he take this hand of help?

Except, he would’ve most vehemently denied it had it been anyone else. If this was the IPC, they’d doubtlessly expect something back in return; but it’s not like he’d show them this sort of vulnerability in the first place. 

You’re different. You don’t expect anything. Though your methods of interaction are crude at best and flat-out disturbing at worst, you aren’t cruel.

Himeko was wrong when she tried to make you more palatable to him. He’s a sweet— he’s not a bad person. 

She’s wrong, in the sense that he’s still waiting for the bitter taste to taint his tongue around you: washing down his throat like the most pungent of coffees. You should be bitter, most definitely, but the way you’re wrapping his arm around your neck and holding it as though he— he, of all people—might break; the way you’ve got your other arm gripping the black fabric of the shirt resting against his ribcage like he might slip away again; the way you keep glancing to him then back to the walls, both checking in on him yet making sure it’s not too awkward—this isn’t bitter, this is anything but. 

She was wrong when she corrected herself, or maybe she didn’t expect Dan Heng to realise your true nature by himself. 

Even if it were Himeko or Mr. Yang, or even Pom-Pom, he would’ve also declined their hand. Maybe he just doesn’t want to feel like a burden, or maybe he doesn’t want to let them down, or maybe he’s just scared of disappointing and being disappointed—but the apathetic neutrality you held him to from the very beginning doesn’t seem so easily swayed. 

As above, so below. There’s a certain beauty in this ‘equilibrium’. 

But he discards those musings for a time where he can actually appreciate them, and focuses on the material rather than abstract. 

You still carry the scent of motor oil; faint alkanes taint the gallery. Beneath it is harsh steel and iron: not unlike blood, but decidedly more pleasant. It mingles with the aromas coating your dermis: acerbic energy drinks, and more perplexingly, the sweet smell of mandarins he’s come across in his travels. At the very end of the long path of fragrance, there’s that decidedly human aspect: sweat, and hazy soap that clings to skin. 

He decides he doesn’t mind the odd medley of scents (in fact, it’s very soothing—especially after the stench  of blood in his nightmares—and he’s definitely not getting sleepy). 

You’re warm. A pulse beats from where his skin exerts pressure on yours—steadfast, so utterly resolute he wonders if you’re ever affected by proximity. Are you picturing a Dan Heng pressed up against you, or is it a machine you’re lugging to repair? It would be amusing to think about if he wasn’t still shivering. 

“You cold?” 

You usher him into a stool by the counter, barely letting him process the question before you’re sliding a glass out of the cabinet, a pitcher out of the fridge, and a can of something from the cardboard pack stashed in a drawer. 

He wants to deny it, he really does, but you’ve already seen him embarrass himself—if he answers you with his teeth chattering, he doesn’t know if his ego will even remain intact. 

Scratch that. It’s already in tatters. 

“A bit,” he admits. 

When you turn back around, you’ve got a glass of icy water in one hand— for him, you slide the beverage—whereas you crack open the can of what he can only assume to be another caffeinated drink. Perplexingly, you’re shrugging off the loose hoodie draped haphazardly against your shoulders and—oh. 

It’s warm against his bare arms, and smells so much like you that he thinks you’ve cloned yourself. If you performed mitosis right now, he wouldn’t be surprised. You’ve behaved stranger. 

This, however, is something completely new. 

“Thanks.” It’s quiet. Can you see the small smile he fights down while he takes a long swill of the crystalline liquid? 

“No problem, man.” He can almost taste the artificial fruit extracts dance through the air as you take hurried sips of your own drink. 

He’s forced awake at odd hours. 

You’re working at odd hours. 

It’s starting to become a bit of a problem. Each time he makes his way for a cold glass of water into the kitchen, you’re there replenishing your energy to take a break from whatever you’re working on. 

It’s becoming routine. Nothing as embarrassing as that first night in the gallery, but something still so awkward he can’t help but feel antsy every time he alights from the futon in the archives. 

It’s also becoming routine that he starts sleeping wrapped in your clothes, breathing in the scent of motors and mandarins and that hazy soap. He’s forgetful when he’s panicking, stumbling towards the kitchen where he knows you’ll be to distract him with whatever you’re talking about. Whether it’s interstellar politics, complaints about the ‘shitty’ manufacturers and other organisations of their ilk, or maybe some more idle things like card games—you welcome the break in this lonely hour, and he welcomes the reprieve. 

One morning, it’s not the enthusiastic slam of his door from Pom-Pom that awakes him, but the methodical knocks from Himeko before she enters the archives. 

“Wow,” she comments as he sits up at her entry. “You’re getting close with my dear apprentice, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t quite know what she’s talking about until he finally looks down and it registers. There’s another of your sweaters—this one graphically decorated with bleached robots who are puzzlingly sunbathing (“They’re recharging their solar cells,” he can almost hear you say, serious intonation and all). Before he knows it, his head’s already buried in his hands and he can feel the flushed skin pressed in the grooves of his palms. 

He helps me sleep better— but the words die in his throat as he realises how that sounds, no matter how true they are. Feeling the warmth of another person—thick fabric, recognisable scent—helps him feel more secure when he inevitably settles in for the peaceful interlude in the next dreams. 

Though, despite his refusal to acknowledge it, he has a feeling Himeko knows exactly the idle leisure that transpires past 3 system hours. 

“Thanks.”

He pauses in his trance-like thoughts.

“I’ve known him for quite some time.”

She hesitates, and it’s the first time he’s heard her voice thicken like that.

“I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you.”

Friends. The word catches at his own throat, and he doesn’t quite know why. 

Himeko leaves, but the syllables linger in their own sort of way. 

I think he’s happier nowadays, with a friend like you. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

The word when occurrences transpire more than thrice is habit, or more accurately, pattern. 

It’s a pattern that his feet seek you out; pattern that you pour him a glass of icy water; pattern that you sit at the bar stool opposite from him and swing your legs idly.

For that half-hour, his thoughts are tranquil. Only for that half-hour. Before the system ever brushes past four hours, you’ve retreated back to your room and he can find not hair nor hide of you until the next nightly rendezvous. 

It’s almost enough to make him forget that this is meant to be a temporary journey. Once one forms social bonds, it is that much harder to break them again—especially one as hard-won as yours. 

Friendship is something Dan Feng knows well; those warmer feelings have been passed down to this current reincarnation. They are two separate beings, but the tenderness transcends mind and body. 

Though he feels a foreign warmth at these systemic hours, he supposes he can’t call this friendship. 

He doesn’t have an iota of knowledge about your past, nor you of his. There’s a mutual understanding to not pry, to not ask questions—to go any deeper than a superficial level. If this were a biology lesson, you’d be stopping at skin level and delving no further. 

It’s so superficial, in fact, that it’s almost a comfort. You distract him from his nightmares and he doesn’t have to feel uncomfortable when you examine the why; he distracts you from the gruelling work you dive into daily, and he doesn’t question the why either. There’s an element of unhealthiness to it all, but the two of you are both at least a little sick in the head—perhaps that’s why the two of you stave it off a bit like this. 

But you don’t acknowledge him outside that prescribed timeslot. You rarely ever leave your room, and when you do, that game of chess last played two months ago seems worlds away. There isn’t a word spared for him—you’re talking to Himeko, to Mr. Yang, and Pom-Pom. But not him. 

It’s as though at night, a layer of yourself has been ground down by the day. You’ve softened enough to let him through that hard marble shell, just a little. As tough as the steel you craft. Maybe you’ve crafted your exoskeleton from it too—he wouldn’t doubt your capabilities that way. 

He and you are not quite friends, it’s something far lesser.

And he’s left wondering where the line is. 

Tonight especially.

It’s easy to slip into slumber—Trailblazing has a way of making him feel like it’s the Express crashing into him. After logging the important details of his mission into the Data Bank, he’s out like a light immediately. 

The dream starts off mundane. It’s the regular—a nonsensical storyline, fragments of faces he’s seen weaving inconsistently through the dreamscape, some he’s never seen before and can only assume belong to the convoluted past of Dan Feng. 

It’s nonsensical, but it stops being cheery when crimson starts seeping into its corners. 

The nightmare, at this point, should also be mundane but is still anything but. The red-eyed man still chases him, he’s still getting pierced through by an insatiable sword, he’s still dying excruciating deaths as punishment for his sins. 

Except, there’s an unexpected variable this time: you.

You’re getting slain in his stead, glassy eyes staring up at him—as if to remind him of the impression he first got when he saw you, like some cruel fucking joke. 

You’re bleeding out continuously, and the smell of metal on you is no longer from the machines you adore, but from the iron inside you. 

You’re dying, over and over, while he’s begging you to stay— don’t leave me. Like all the others in the ‘past’, don’t leave me too. 

He wakes up panting—there’s a frigid atmosphere from the sweat drenching him to the very bone. 

Dan Heng almost runs to the kitchen: stumbling through the luxurious gallery like that occasion all those weeks ago.

When he flings open the door, he crashes into you as you’re at the counter— breathing you in, taking in all the warmth so bitterly robbed from you. 

“You…” you trail off, your words a mumble as his arms weakly support himself on the counter. He’s still leaning into you—your hands are pressed steady against his shoulders, and he can feel the warmth of your calloused palms on his bare arms. “You’re freezing.”

It’s unspoken. Almost robotically, you pull your sweater off yourself and he pulls it on. 

Though, this time, you don’t hand him the icy water as is your modus operandi. 

Rather, you’re rummaging through the cupboards, and you pull out a small cardboard box labelled with a script he doesn’t recognise. 

“Camomile, lavender, and peppermint,” you translate, offering no explanation as you steep the tea in a mug with a wobbly cat drawn with wobbly lines with a wobbly handle. He gets it, he really does. “Sleep-aiders from a planet I knew.”

You don’t have your usual can either, instead choosing to brew yourself another mug as well. 

That’s another surprise, but then again, you’re not the most consistent person. 

“Thank you,” he mutters. He wants to look down at his hands, but he’s transfixed on your expression as you lose yourself in your thoughts. 

You pass him the steaming mug, and he thinks the brush of your fingers against his scalds him more than the tea ever could. 

“Worse, this time huh?” It’s not probing. You already know it was worse. 

Yes. More than you could ever know. Your eyes, glinting in the soft light, did not look like this in his endless night. 

He gives a noncommittal noise in response. It could be a hum, it could be a soft mumbled yeah. He doesn’t know. 

You mull over something as you take a sip of your tea. Some of his is beginning to waft steadily upwards, drowning him in a gentle fragrance that somehow suits your presence when you’re like this. At this hour, when you can spare him more than a cursory glance, more than silence. 

“Do you…” you pause, and he can feel his stomach tense in anticipation. “Do you want to stay in my room for a bit while I work?”

He didn’t expect that. 

He almost drops the mug. 

“Ah, you don’t have to or anything,” you explain hurriedly. “But Pom-Pom always says they get sleepy when they watch me map out new projects so if you’d like—”

“Yes,” he interrupts breathlessly. He shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t sacrifice his dignity to basically beg you to numb his mind a bit more. 

“I’d like that.”

And when you take his hand in yours—warm fingers clasped roughly around a clammy palm—he thinks that maybe he should stay on the Express a bit longer. Maybe a friendship won’t be impossible with you. 

In your sweater, drinking your tea, he doesn’t feel as much of a stranger as he might have otherwise when he’s standing in your room.

It’s cluttered, as cluttered as he saw all those weeks ago—but that was just a small piece of it, nothing like the sprawled chaos that surrounds him now. 

There’s a warm amber light shining over all the various machines decorating each corner, too many to count. They obscure the sprawling workbench tucked away near your wardrobe—it’s covered in various blueprint rolls and small bits of machinery that lay scattered between tiny screwdrivers and one comically large spanner placed bang in the middle. 

You make the chaos work. Gauzy fabric flutters against the ceiling and windows—linking delicate trinkets, colourful lamps and various machines that shouldn’t belong where you sleep. If he’s honest, it looks like some opulent laboratory he only saw glimpses of in the Luofu—though he much prefers yours. 

There’s no bed. When he asks, you inform him that you don’t sleep. 

That is a joke. 

When your deadpan expression finally gives way, you admit that the bed self-disassembles and assembles when the need for sleep surfaces. 

He takes small swallows of the fragrant drink, watching as you quietly fit the parts together without screws. There’s no music, so the only sound present is the clink of metal pressing against metal, the sound of your careful breathing, and the pulse of his heart. 

Unlike the kitchen, you don’t sit opposite him when you work. You’re sitting right next to him on the workbench. Each time you inhale, your torso expands ever so slightly and your arm presses against his in a way he definitely takes notice of. 

He fights down the strange embarrassment that tightens his chest, and keeps sipping his drink. 

It’s only when you’ve finally disassembled it and reassembled it with the screws that he finally begins feeling the soothing effects of the tea. 

You’ve started sketching—a rough idea for a building, he notes—lines confident and bold despite your use of a ballpoint pen rather than pencil. 

By now, he’s on his last morsel of the liquid ambrosia you’ve fed him. 

And he’s getting sleepy. 

There’s that constant scritch-scritch of pen as it moves against a thick sketchbook—easing into the paper with such languidness he feels it reflected in his own body. 

His eyelids are fighting to stay up, and he knows that he should be polite and excuse himself so he can curl back into bed with flowers still on his breath. 

He can’t bring himself to leave. 

There’s just something about the warm lights and the lethargy that hits him with the force of the Express. He’s loathe to leave it; it’s easy, so easy to let his head drop, before it finally hits—

Not the desk, but your palm as you protect it from the collision. 

“Wow,” you remark. “The tea really did do the trick.”

You don’t chase him away. When you ask if he’d like to stay a little bit longer, you don’t argue with the incoherent hum that exits his voice box. Before he can think about what he just did, your palm is cradling his head onto your shoulder. 

He’s soft, Dan Heng notes; he’s already sleepily inhaling the clean scent of your fabric softener—face smushed into the folds of your shirt. 

This isn’t his proudest moment. In fact, this is in his top three embarrassing ones. 

However, that’s a conversation to be held in the morning. 

He’s certainly not about to move from this position. 

Dan Heng isn’t awoken by the hurried knocking of Pom-Pom—no, this sound is much more familiar, much more dangerous. 

It’s the sound of a camera shutter clicking.

His eyes snap open, and he’s met with the sight of your folded torso and a flash of red in his peripherals. There’s something inexplicably soft pressing against his cheek, and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that the sleep that overtook him somehow landed his head in your thighs while you slumber over your desk. 

He sits up—careful to bang his head on neither the desk nor your chin—and looks in horror at Himeko, who’s smiling serenely as though that sound he heard was nothing. 

 “Himeko.” It’s the first time since he met the woman that his voice holds that note of utter caution. “What did you—”

“Shh.” She gesticulates to you, then mimes her finger on top of her lips. “He’s still sleeping.”

He refuses to look at you.

“Delete that,” he mouths.

 He thinks it’s the first time he’s been so stubborn with the older Trailblazer. And it’s only after he secures an agreement from her that he finally leaves your room—flinching from the door closing behind him as though it scalded him. 

He never ends up talking to you about what happened that night. He’s not sure he wants to bring it up, but it never does happen again. Dan Heng’s nightmares have lessened considerably, after all—yet his body still urges him to wake at three and fall into restless sleep at four system hours, so the nightly meetings continue. 

There’s a kind of mutual agreement between the two of you. Move on. The past remains unexamined, unexplained, and unapologetic. 

He thinks he prefers it that way. 

But in this situation, he really doesn’t know what to think. 

He’s been here for over two months, or more accurately, 1480 system hours by now. Every time he makes a stop at another planet, he wonders. 

Will this be the one? Would his journey start anew? Would he leave?

Each time, the answer is no. 

It’s a lot to mull over. He’s running his fingers over the uniform rows of CDs and cassettes and physical drives in the cabinets of the archives: a calming, rhythmic pattern— over and over and over.

Why can’t he leave?

Dan Heng pulls one out at random and stops short in disbelief. In all his years, he doesn’t think he’s been so astounded at someone’s audaciousness. 

It’s that damned photo, the one Himeko swore up and down was deleted—and clearly it wasn’t. He quickly adds aggravating to his mental list of her adjectives. He doesn’t know how long it’s been there—anywhere from a few hours to a week or so. 

He’s looking at you, slouched over your desk with a spanner intimately connected to the side of your cheek. It’s not a flattering picture whatsoever, but he finds himself entranced by this side of you— yet another, undocumented crack in marble. There’s a faint glimmer of drool on your lips— slightly parted— but the expression you wear isn’t tainted by anger nor exhaustion. It’s all washed away. You’re relaxed.

You’re relaxed, and his head is firmly marooned on your legs. The position makes him flush—while his face is thankfully forward, his ears are pressed to both your thighs and your chest as you snooze on the table. He’s not just confused, he’s flabbergasted. How did he get there? Was it really that bad—sure, he remembers waking up against your legs, but nothing as compromising as this!

He stares at the image a moment longer, then buries his face into his palm with an exhausted sigh. 

Dan Heng knows he should throw it out—use his spear to hack away at the picture until all that remains is artificial snow for good measure for both his dignity and yours—but he can’t, for some stupid reason. 

With lips pressed together, he slides the photo back into the cassette holder and quietly copies the data into a blank one. When it’s replaced back on the shelf, it looks identical to the one he’s still holding. 

It’s shoved into his bag: yet another secret to keep under the layer of superficiality. 

And when his mind finally clears, he’s already forgotten what he was meant to be doing in the first place. 

All that lingers is one thought: I don’t mind this friendship.

This thought is quite bittersweet. 

　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　   ☾

[vanfleeter]

My Love II: Chapter 1

A/N: Welcome to the second series! Characters: Jake Kiszka, Josh Kiszka, Sam Kiszka, Danny Wagner, Sara, Nora Warnings: 18+ || Gore. Vampires. Blood. Blood drinking. Murder. Death. Angst. Adult Themes. Fear. Anger. Worry. Jealousy. Allusions to sexual violence. Physical violence. Smut. Mentions of sex.

SARA’S POV

My hearing was blocked out by the sound of my heart beating wildly in my chest as I ran from Sam’s house, leaving Jake behind. I fought with myself internally when I got to the end of the driveway.

Do I go back? Do I keep going like he told me to?

I didn’t want to leave him. The image of him writhing in pain never leaves my head as I trudge on through the woods towards Josh’s home. He must have known I was coming because he’s throwing open the front door and racing out to me. His mouth moved but my ears were still ringing from my heart beating, preventing me from hearing a single word he was speaking to me.

“Jake…” I heaved as I bent over.

Josh’s hands drag me up to the front door and inside before he’s sitting me on the couch.

“What happened?” He asks. “Where’s Jake?”

“I don’t know..”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“He got shot–”

“Shot?! By who?!”

“I don’t know, I never saw their face.”

“And you just left him?!”

“He told me to run, Josh. He told me to run and to come find you.” Why is he mad at me? I’m only following what Jake ordered me to do. I didn't want to leave but he gave me no choice.

What if he’s dead now? What if this person killed him?

I could feel my stomach churning and everything we did tonight come rushing back at me like a semi truck barrelling down the road. Rushing out of the room, I go to the bathroom and heave all of the contents from my stomach into the toilet. Which wasn’t very much.. I can feel Josh’s hands as he pulls my hair back away from my face. Once I had finished, I sat back on the floor and leaned against the wall. Josh wiped my face clean with a wet washcloth, staining the pure white cotton red with blood.

“Did he say anything else to you?” Josh asks as he sits cross legged in front of me.

I shake my head. “He just told me to run and find you.”

“And you’re sure you didn't see who did this?”

Again I shake my head. “I don’t know.. But whoever did most likely has Sam too.. Josh, I think he’s back in his ripper phase. The house was trashed and there was blood everywhere..”

“Shit..” Josh mutters under his breath before standing to his feet. He helps me stand too before he’s tugging me from the bathroom.

“Do you know of any enemies?”

“Sara, we’re well over five hundred years old, I wouldn't be surprised if we did. But who would it be? We don’t have time to sit around and guess. If they already have Sam and now Jake, they’ll most likely be after all of us.”

“Why not just take me out too? We were both right there.”

“Maybe they weren't aware that you're one too.”

Josh brings me into a different room, one with walls covered in relics from all different centuries. I hear him chuckle at my awe and I tilt my head down to look at him. He smiles and leans up against a bookshelf. “We’ve saved a lot of this from our past lifetimes. About five hundred and thirty years worth of stuff.”

I looked around the room again until my eyes landed on a painted portrait of a man dressed in a long black robe. His hair fell in the same wavy, brown locks over his shoulders. The brown color of eyes still look how they do now.

“Jake was supposed to wear his kolpak hat that day,” Josh says as he walks up to stand behind me. “But per usual, he refused.”

“When was this painted?” I ask as I dared to run the pad of my index finger along the worn and raised canvas.

“Ummm.. Sometime around 1524? We were thirty when they painted our portraits.”

“He looks thirty,” I say, examining the detailed facial hair grown out on his face. “Has he ever grown it out like this since?”

Josh shakes his head. “Nope, just his usual mustache and the small scruff on his chin.” He sucks in a breath before turning on his heels and walking away. “Anyways.. Not what I brought you in here for,” He says. “Come..” I follow him through the room and towards a different door, which leads down a short hallway to a different room. “I fear we have a vampire hunter in our midst.”

“Why now?” I ask as he reaches for a notebook and flips through the pages.

“There could be many reasons why now,” Josh says. “We have made enemies throughout our five hundred years on this earth.”

“So what do we do?” I ask.

He drops the notebook onto a table and his eyes flash to mine. “We will do nothing.. I will take it upon myself to find my brother.”

“I will not stand aside and let you do this on your own.”

“He is my brother..” He says. “And so is Sam. This is my problem.” He grabs another notebook and starts flipping through the pages.

“He’s my problem too..”

Josh’s eyes flash up to me as he pauses his hand. He keeps it steady against the worn pages of the notebook but his eyes only show anger, a war raging within them. “It is my duty to keep you safe–but only my duty to save my brothers. It has always been that way and that way it will stay. You only came into the picture a few years ago and you are still new to this dynamic and this new life of yours.” He slams the notebook shut and drops it down onto the table. “Do not think just because you are my brother’s lover that you can just come in here and declare your involvement. If anything were to happen to you..again–Jacob would never forgive me, nor would I forgive myself.”

“So that’s it? I don't do anything?”

Quick as lightning, Josh has me pushed against the wall. “Does everything just go in one ear and out the other? I need your help but not to save my brothers.. I failed once in protecting you and look what happened..” He steps back, releasing his hold on me and drops his hand to his side. “I will not fail again..” He goes back to the shelf and retrieves another notebook. “Grab a journal and start reading.” He orders.

This is how I’m supposed to help? Reading fucking journals?

“Shut up..” I hear him grumble. “I said start reading..”

“Are you reading my mind?”

“Can’t help it when even your brain won't be quiet either..”

I huff and grab a journal before flopping down into a chair and flipping open the cover. Beautiful handwriting covers the pages and it was only then as I read each entry that this was Jake’s journal. I run my fingers along the delicate pages, tracing each letter he scribed in ink on the paper. His use of languages fluctuates between each entry. One entry he’ll be speaking in English, then another he’ll be writing in Spanish, and then another in Polish.

Maybe I should start learning Polish.

“It would help..” Josh says.

I lift my eyes and narrow them at Josh. His lips are turned up slightly on the right side in a smirk. “Get out of my head.” I say.

“Would if I could, but you’re so loud.”

“I know you can choose not to listen, so choose it.”

His cocky smile grows bigger and he turns his attention back to the journal in his hands.

“Exactly what is it that I am looking for?” I ask as I place my arms crossed over to the journal and tilting my head to look up at Josh.

“Anything that he writes about potential enemies.. Jake recorded a lot of our past in these journals. He once told me that if we were to live for eternity, that people should be privy to our past, read of our lives and of our journeys–friends and family that we have had to watch from afar as they grew older and eventually passed on to whatever life is before them on the other side, past lovers we had to part with because we could not bear witness their timely deaths at an old age, the bloodshed we have caused, the enemies we have made–who very well might still seek us out.”

I shift my body in the chair, intrigued with what their past had been like. “Did he ever write about how the three of you were turned?” I say three because I already have an idea on how Danny was turned, due to his anger towards Sitovo and the immortality that she forced upon him.

“Probably in the journals he kept around the 1500s. I’d say–1530? But enough of that, we need to find potential enemies and make a list.”

Suddenly the door to the room is flung open and Nora bursts inside and dragging a bleeding Danny on her shoulder. Josh is flinging the notebook closed and tossing it onto the table before rushing over to aid Nora with Danny. I stand carefully from the chair as I watch them both bring him over to a couch that rests beneath the stained glass window.

“What happened?” Josh asks as he rips Danny’s shirt apart revealing his bloody back.

“It happened so fucking fast, Josh, I don’t even think this person was human..” Nora says, her trembling with fear. “One minute we’re..you know..and the next the room is being broken into and Danny’s nailed with several bullets to his back. I fought them off as best I could, incapacitating them long enough to throw on clothes and get us both the hell out of the house.”

“Fuck..” Josh mutters. He gently runs his hands along the wounds on Danny’s back, which didn’t feel so gentle to Danny as he groans in pain, flexing his one fist that hangs off the couch. “We have to get this out.” Josh says.

“Who this fuck is doing this?” Nora asks.

“I don’t know,” Josh says. “But they have Sam and now Jake. They want all of us, by the looks of it.”

“But why? I don’t understand.”

“One of us did something at some point pissing someone off–I’m assuming, and they’re after all of us.” Josh heads for the door of the room. “Try not to let him move, I’ll be right back.”

I watch Nora as she kneels down beside the couch and gingerly brushes Danny’s curls away from his face. She gently kisses his cheek and he whimpers, his body slightly shaking from the pain. “You’re going to be okay,” She says. “Josh is going to help you.”

JOSH’S POV

My heart pounds in my chest as I gather all of the tools I will need to remove all of the bullets from Danny’s back. Seeing how much pain he is in can only make me imagine how much pain Jake must be in. And Sam–god, Sam.. Back in his ripper phase? What if this has to do with him? What if whoever is coming after us is because of him?

Rolling up the tools in a cloth wrap, I quickly make my way back to the room and make haste at relieving Danny from this pain. Pulling the sleeves of my shirt up my arms, I slide on a pair of gloves and grab the metal forceps from the bundle of tools.

“Danny, hold still for me. I know this is going to hurt but the less you move, the quicker this will all be over.” Danny only groans in response so I make haste to remove the first bullet by his shoulder blade. Digging into his skin, he starts to holler and tries to move all the while Sara and Nora restrain him. “Hold him..” I demand as I pull out the first bullet and drop it into a plastic container.

The process to remove every bullet is slow. They’re embedded so deep into his back that it makes it hard to even find them. But gradually I make it further along and within the hour I’m removing the final bullet and dropping into the container. He’s passed out by now, no doubt from the pain and the amount of vervain swimming through his veins that these bullets were laced this. You would think after five hundred years we would have grown used to the toxicity of vervain.

Wrapping up his back and using the three of us, we manage to bring him upstairs to one of the spare rooms and lay him in bed.

“He got lucky..” I say as I collapse into one of the reading chairs along the wall. “There was one super close to his heart. Had it been a centimeter over to the left, he’d be dead..”

“Oh Danny..” Nora moans as she clutches his hand in hers.

“We’ll let him rest,” I say. “He won’t be awake for a long while.. In the meantime, Sara and I have a lot of reading to do.”

‘You have got to be kidding me…”

“Stop your complaining..” I say to Sara as I stand up from the chair.

“Stay out of my head.” She growls.

“Come on, I may have narrowed down precisely to what we should be on the lookout for.”

Scouring the journals on the shelves, I pull every single from the years spanning Sam’s ripper phase. Approximately from 1898 to 1903 when we managed to stop him in Michigan. There’s a journal for each year, so six total. I split them up, three to each of us and we started reading.

Coldwater, Michigan.

12th of June, 1903

It has been three days since we tracked Samuel to Michigan. For the past six years we have been chasing after him, trying to stop him from terrorizing another town and more people. His body count has gone to the hundreds and we know that it will not stop unless we put an end to it.

We tracked all the way here to Coldwater after receiving word of bodies being found drained of blood and ripped apart. We knew it to be Samuel, he is the only known ripper in America. We have not figured out why he suddenly snapped and became who he is, nor will he tell us. His emotions have been turned off making him nothing but a shell inhabiting a monster.

We initially thought he had turned them off due to the death of his first ever love. She was human, of course, which is forbidden within the coven, but oh Samuel did love her. Her name was Edith and she was beautiful. Every man who ever laid eyes on her instantly fell in love with her. I will admit that I had to, but Edith only ever had her eyes on Samuel. Her heart belonged to Samuel and his heart belonged to her. He made the decision to turn her, should she make the choice herself and she did. Though come the summer of 1898, Edith was murdered by her own kind. A man who coveted her, wanted her all to himself. He even offered her father a large sum of money so he could marry her. Little did he know that Samuel already promised a better deal, one her father could never refuse. We had never been privy to this information, but it was then that the man took it upon himself to harm Edith. He attacked her in her own bedroom in the middle of the night. He forced himself upon her as she kicked and she screamed, clawing at his body to remove him from her. No one came to her aid, for no one was home. By the time Samuel had come home from a business trip to Savannah, she was already gone.

He blamed himself for her death, saying he could have saved her had he not made the trip. I had never seen him so distraught. From that night, he ripped through the town out of fury. He hunted down the man who took Edith’s innocence and her life and he had gotten his revenge on him. No one could find his body because I had handled the aftermath of Samuel’s fury. I took every individual body part and threw it into a burning fire.

Then he disappeared for months after that. We had no inclination as to where he would be until reports had started coming out about mysterious deaths of people all up and down the east coast. We followed the trail inland until we made it here to Michigan.

His last victim, Robert Duvaul, was unsuspecting of Samuel’s terror on the town. He left behind a wife, a former lover of mine.

Vivianne Duvaul.

Closing the journal, I stand up from the table and pull Sara from her chair and out of the room. “What is it? What did you find?”

“I know exactly who took Sam and Jake..” I say.

“Who?”

“Vivianne Duvaul,” I say. “One of Jake’s former lovers and the wife of Samuel’s last victim on his ripper rampage.”

“Former lover?”

I stop walking and turn back to face Sara. “Don’t be jealous. She was simply a fling during his period of sleeping around.”

“Who said I was jealous?”

“Your face,” I smirk. “Now come on, the sooner we find her–”

‘The sooner I can kill her..’

I snort, shaking my head, unable to resist the urge to respond. “Yeah, you’re jealous..” I’m earning a slap to the back of my head and I can’t help but to smirk. Less painful than what she can really do.

JAKE’S POV

The pounding in my head is the first to signal to me that I’m awake, followed by the dull pain in my abdomen. Peeling my eyes open, I find myself in a room of concrete walls, and when I try to move I feel the cold metal of cuffs wrapped around my ankles. I start to tug on them but my strength is gone.

“It’s no use..” A voice speaks beside me. “I’ve tried..”

“Sam?”

The sounds of chains clicking and dragging along the floor indicate the person moving. But as my eyes adjust better to the dark, I see that it’s not Sam, but instead a woman.

“You don't recognize me, do you?” She says.

“Should I?”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Of course you wouldn't.. I mean, it has only been one hundred and twenty one years. Ada Eastman, if that rings a bell at all.”

Ada Eastman. I roll the name around in my head for an answer as to who she is. “Did we sleep together at some point?” I ask.

She shrugs her shoulders, “Once or twice..” Of course.

“Why are you here?”

“Same reason you are,” Ada says. “She wants me dead..”

“What did you do?”

“I made Sam into the ripper..” She says.

“Wait.. What? No..” I say, shaking my head in disbelief. “He lost control after Edith died..”

“She was murdered because of me..” She says as she moves her body to sit more comfortably on the floor. “I made that man so obsessed with her to the point that if he couldn't have her, no one could.”

“But why do that to Sam? What did he ever do to you?”

“I loved Sam..”

“Even though you were sleeping with me..”

“You were such a good distraction..” She says. I roll my eyes and lean back against the wall. “Bet you still would be now..”

“Don't even think about it.”

“Come on, Jakey..” I grimace at her use of that damn nickname, and I move further away from her. “Remember how much fun we used to have? You were so sexy when we fucked after we fed. Don't you remember?”

It was May of 1903, a month before Edith’s death and Sam’s torment on Coldwater, and I’ll admit the sex was pretty good. Whenever we fed, I fell into bed with Ada. The adrenaline still coursing through our bodies as we fucked on the satin sheets of her bed. It would be destroyed by the time the sun had risen the next morning, sometimes even broken.

“Oh you’re thinking about us..” Ada giggles and I shake my head.

“It’s in the past, I moved on..”

“Believe me, I know,” Ada sighs. “Sara’s pretty.. Sad she’ll have to spend eternity without you..”

“I won’t let that happen..”

“Says the man who’s chained to a wall..”

Locks click on the door and I look over to see it being pushed open. Sam walks through, looking completely unscathed and in one piece. “Thank god, Sam…” I sigh in relief. “You’re okay.. Please get me out of these..”

He glances at me briefly before making his way across the room to Ada. He pulls her off the floor and unlocks her chains. “What are you doing?” She says as she tries to pull away from him. “Let me go.” He starts to drag her back to the door as she begins to kick and claw at him.

“Sam, what are you doing?” I say as I stand on my feet. He continues to ignore me as he pulls Ada from the room as she continues to struggle against him and scream. “Sam!”

“Let me go!”

“Sam, what are you doing?! Sam!”

The door slams closed behind him and all I can hear is Ada’s screams slowly becoming distant as he takes her farther away. That was not Sam. That was not my brother. What the hell happened to him while he was away and why is he helping Vivianne?

@losfacedevil @writingcold @edgingthedarkness @i-love-gvf @katuschka @josh-iamyour-mama @sammysstolenbirks @asendingtothestarsasone @hollyco @musicislove3389 @its-interesting-van-kleep @katiegvf @tinydancer40 @gretavangroupie @lizzys-sunflower @fleetingjake @takenbythemadness @godly-sinsx @psychedelectable @dancingcarbon @oliverfuckingreed @cheersdannyx2 @piratejtk @katuschka @musicislove3389 @takenbythemadness

add yourself to the tag list in my master list!

[ethicaltreatmentofcowplants]

Asylum Challenge: Day Four (Part II) part one

After dinner, everyone was left to their own devices, with the 'self-care' club activated to make sure they at least showered before bed.

L. napped, while Ted read, the gentlemen of dastardly repute played chess and Raj checked that nothing was amiss in the kitchen.

Uh, Raj? Fairly certain that grilled cheese on the floor violates health and safety measures.

Robotics? Just one thing in which we don't need a criminal mastermind to develop an understanding.

Meanwhile after many talks in the mirror, Lilac finally completed her final emotional painting and was allowed downstairs for dinner.

Level Two: Fine Artist

✅ Reach Painting Level 4 ✅ Sell 3 Paintings to Collectors or the Art Gallery ✅ Complete 3 Emotional Paintings

Predictably as the rest of the household slept, the possession hour struck.

I seem to have got a nicer Jacques than usual this save. So far other than his criminal underworld career, he hasn't really done anything dastardly and appears to be dispensing his wisdom to poor Meredith regarding her marital woes.

Watch out, everyone - Ted Roswell's got a pumpkin to catch!

Normally the Watcher only controls Lilac and leaves the rest be with minimal interference. But when she spied Jacques showering outside, she just had to send the MOTHER's latest minion over to investigate.

Being an ERRATIC Sim, Jacques didn't seem all that phased.

Understandably as a Sage, L. wasn't moved by any of this and finally ate (*squints*) Vlad's grilled cheese sandwich.

[blueiscoool]

Remains of Three New Pompeii Victims Discovered

The remains of three new Pompeii victims have been unearthed beneath the towering shadow of Mount Vesuvius - almost 2000 years after its catastrophic 79 CE eruption.

The skeleton remains are believed to have belonged to two women and a child, aged between three and four years old.

The trio are believed to have died while seeking shelter in what is suspected to be a bakery, during the first stage of the eruption.

"In these last rooms the bone remains of three victims of the eruption have surfaced," a statement from Pompeii Archaeological Park said.

"Three Pompeians who had taken refuge in search of salvation and who instead found their death under the collapsed attics.

"The individuals were found in an already excavated environment, where only 40cm remained of intact stratigraphy (earth).

"They rested in direct contact with the floor, and presented - together with evidence of important postmortem settlement processes - a series of perimortem traumas due to the collapse of the attic above."

A structure with two intact fresco walls were also discovered as part of the ongoing excavations in an area called Regio IX, a commercial part of town.

One of the walls depicted the sea god Poseidon and Amimone, the other portrays the sun god Apollo and his first love Daphne, who swore to remain a virgin and spurned his advances.

The discoveries come weeks after the remains of two victims, believed to be men, were found beneath a collapsed wall.

The ancient Roman city was destroyed when Vesuvius roared to life the morning of August 24, 79 CE.

By lunchtime the volcano had sent a towering ash and debris cloud into the stratosphere, which rained pumice down on the town as earthquakes rumbled foundations.

This is known as the Plinian phase, which lasted for about 20 hours, and is thought to have been when the three victims perished.

Destruction came for Pompeii in the second eruption stage, known as the Pelean phase.

Pyroclastic surges of molten rock and hot gases surged down the volcano's slopes, burning and asphyxiating people before they had a chance to flee, burying the city.

The eruption is said to have released 100,000 times the energy of the Hiroshima-Nagasaki atomic bombings in World War II.

It's estimated 2000 people died in Pompeii.

However, the exact death toll from the eruption is not known as casualties also occurred in the nearby settlements of Herculaneum, Oplontis, and Stabiae.

[gunsandspaceships]

Review of Fury's Big Week tie-in. Part 2

This is a list of all the significant mistakes made in these 8 comics that Marvel Studios considers canon.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2:

The main problem

The main idea behind Fury's Big Week is that the three Phase 1 movies (The Incredible Hulk, Iron Man 2 and Thor) took place at the same time (within a week). According to the movies themselves, this is not true at all. Here's what month and year they took place (with links to timelines based on the movies): The Incredible Hulk - August-October 2009 IM2 - May-June 2010 Thor - November 2011

I will not be solving the problem here of how all this can be explained so that it all works together (I will do this in a separate post) and will simply describe what is wrong.

According to the latest canon (the official MCU timeline), Big Week takes place in the spring of 2010. And Iron Man 2 does take place in the spring (mostly) of 2010. Since we know when Tony's birthday is (May 29th) - around this date. So Big Week bases its dates on that movie.

Day 1 (May 29th):

Tony - "72 hours until death". His Birthday.

Bruce - crossed the US border.

According to the movie it happened in September/October 2009, not in May 2010.

Thor - Coulson informs Fury of "atmospheric disturbance above New Mexico".

According to the movie it was November 2011.

"72 hours"

The comic shows us that SHIELD scientists know exactly how long Tony has left to live. However, in the movie, JARVIS lets us know that this time also depends on factors that SHIELD scientists couldn't calculate, such as: 1) whether Tony uses the Iron Man suit, for how long, and how much energy he needs; 2) how much chlorophyll he drinks.

The party scene

The problem is that there is no scene like the one on this page in the movie. I mean with Tony holding a barbell in a room with guests, where they also are running away and Natasha is calling Fury.

The barbell scene takes place entirely in the gym, out of sight of others (0:57:15 - 0:57:22). They enter the room depicted in the book at 0:57:46. And no one runs away until Tony roars at them at 0:58:26, when he and Rhodey have already finished fighting hand-to-hand.

This frame is also problematic:

If she was talking about Rhodes in Mark II, it would all make sense. That's how he flew away. But she was talking about Tony, who at that moment should still be half-lying stunned on the floor nearby. Simply because the explosion the guys had caused had just happened and he hadn’t had time to come to his senses and fly away (remember the length of the call and that Fury only called Natasha once after he heard the explosion, and didn’t have time to panic and send all his agents and a coroner there).

[black-arcana]

NIGHTWISH Announces 'Yesterwynde' Album, 'Perfume Of The Timeless' Single

Symphonic metal veterans NIGHTWISH will release their new album, "Yesterwynde", on September 20, 2024 via Nuclear Blast. It marks the band's tenth studio album, following on from the release of "Human. :II: Nature." in 2020.

NIGHTWISH keyboardist and main songwriter Tuomas Holopainen states: "'Yesterwynde' is a fantastical voyage through time, memory, and the better angels of human nature.

"Three years in the making, we're thrilled beyond words to soon share our tenth album with the world!"

The album's first single, "Perfume Of The Timeless" will arrive on May 21.

"Yesterwynde" track listing:

01. Yesterwynde 02. An Ocean Of Strange Islands 03. The Antikythera Mechanism 04. The Day Of... 05. Perfume Of The Timeless 06. Sway 07. The Children Of 'Ata 08. Something Whispered Follow Me 09. Spider Silk 10. Hiraeth 11. The Weave 12. Lanternlight

In January, NIGHTWISH drummer Kai Hahto spoke about the band's upcoming follow-up to 2020's "Human. :II: Nature." album in an interview with Laureline Tilkin of Tuonela Magazine. He said: "At least it's not gonna be the same as 'Human. :II: Nature.', so… Probably, let's say that we go back to more heavy, heavier things on the new album, but also there's a lot of, again, new winds to blow, so to speak. So, different new elements. But, of course, it's still NIGHTWISH, but, of course, we brought back the big symphony orchestra again to the new upcoming tenth album. Yeah, it's gonna be exciting. And quite challenging music to play as well."

Asked if he is "in a way happy" that he doesn't have to play the new NIGHTWISH songs live right now, in light of the fact that the band is taking a break from touring for the foreseeable future, Kai said: "No, no, no. Totally opposite. I would love to go and play it live. But hopefully the time will come when we go back, charging the batteries first. Of course, it's nice to be home with the kids and wife and dogs, but still, of course, I've always been a player, so I also like to play for the people. But I believe I'm not gonna be bored. So I have a lot of things in the back of my head. Even NIGHTWISH is now taking a break. So, I'm not gonna be bored."

Earlier in January, Hahto told Chaoszine that "it looks like" NIGHTWISH won't play any shows in the next two or three years.

In April 2023, NIGHTWISH surprised fans by announcing that the band was not going to be playing any live shows for the foreseeable future and would be not be touring in support of the group's next studio album.

NIGHTWISH's statement read as follows: "As the 'Human :ll: Nature - World Tour' is drawing to a close, we feel now is the time to tell you of our plans for the next phase in our journey.

"After the planned shows for June 2023 we will be 'hanging up our spurs' for an indeterminate time, as far as live concert performances go, and won't be touring the next album.

"The reasons for this decision are personal, but, we all agree, vital to the wellbeing and future of the band. Be assured that we still love working together, and this decision has nothing to do with Floor's pregnancy or our other individual projects.

"However, an album of 12 new songs will see bright daylight in 2024, as will 3 music videos! The band is positively hyped beyond words over this new upcoming musical adventure."

In December 2022, Holopainen said NIGHTWISH's upcoming follow-up to "Human. :II: Nature." will be the third part of a trilogy that began with 2015's "Endless Forms Most Beautiful" album. He told Metal Hammer: "I immediately knew after getting that album ['Endless Forms Most Beautiful'] done that, 'Okay, we have to do more songs about this, because there's so much more to explore and tell the world. We're not done with this.' And the same thing happened after 'Human. :II: Nature.'; we're still not done. So let's do one more. At least one more.

"In a way, [the next album] is the third part of a trilogy, which started with 'Endless Forms…' and then 'Human. :II: Nature.' There are some major surprises there again, but it feels like a natural continuation to 'Human. :II: Nature.'"

According to Tuomas, NIGHTWISH's next LP will cover previously uncharted ground while continuing in the more cinematic style that has characterized some of the band's recent efforts.

In September 2022, Tuomas was asked if NIGHTWISH's upcoming LP will once again be an exploration of evolutionary science, as was the case with the previous two releases. Tuomas said: "Yes and no. It sails on the same waters, but there's some new surprises there as well."

In August 2022, Tuomas told Rock Sverige that he spent "about a year" working on the music and lyrics for the next NIGHTWISH album.

Asked if he got any kind of inspiration from the pandemic, Tuomas said: "Yeah, lyrically there's a couple of things that reflects the pandemic, but not in the way you would expect."

"Human. :II: Nature." was released in April 2020. The follow-up to 2015's "Endless Forms Most Beautiful" was a double album containing nine tracks on the main CD and one long track, divided into eight chapters, on CD 2.

In August 2022, NIGHTWISH announced the addition of Jukka Koskinen (WINTERSUN) as an official member of the band. Koskinen, who made his live debut with NIGHTWISH in May 2021 at the band's two interactive experiences, had spent the previous year touring with NIGHTWISH as a session musician.

In November 2022, singer Floor Jansen revealed that she was "cancer free" after recently undergoing surgery to have a tumor removed following a breast cancer diagnosis.

This past October, Floor and SABATON drummer Hannes Van Dahl welcomed their second child, a daughter named Lucy. Jansen and Van Dahl already have a seven-year-old daughter named Freja, who was born on March 15, 2017.

Photo credit: Tim Tronckoe (courtesy of Nuclear Blast)