#pray for eddie during this difficult time

[911-incorrect-quotes-dispatch]

Buck: Hey babe, remember how I had to go to the pharmacy to pick up my ADHD meds? Eddie: Yes? Buck: Well, it turns out they're all out for the next five days. Eddie: Fuck. Buck: Get ready because it's going to be a fun week! Eddie: I'm going to Chim's house. Buck: Through sickness and health, motherfucker. You're stuck with me.

[irondiotallica]

Flare Up

I went a little ham with this one. Couldn't stop writing it seems, but here is a new blurb. It's def a little clunkier than the other one, but I like the idea of Steve becoming a physical therapist after everything and offering his services to the cute metalhead he's had a crush on since the upside down. Idk. Oh and fun fact, Times Square used to be the porn capital before the 1990s when Mayor Rudolph Giuliani shut it down to clean up the city. Anyway, enjoy the blurb! -Silas

[Steddie]

Eddie’s hip furiously blazed with a flash of stabbing pain. His joints had been bothering him underneath the scars left by the bats and their fucked up little teeth. The scarred flesh on his left hip was uncomfortably tight, pulled taut over his muscles and bones.

The damaged skin constricted his right shoulder, as though the skin would burst into a bleeding fissure with the tiny struggling breaths that Eddie was pushing through in labored waves. He was moments away from caving and taking a dosage of pills despite having agreed to take them less.

He felt as though his insides weren’t aware that he had been kept alive. It felt like his nerves had continued to decay turning into soaked cotton doused in kerosene with one little spark of discomfort able to render him incapacitated. 

Eddie shuffled to his phone with dread flooding through his system like an unprepared county during monsoon season. He knew that he had to call, but he was reluctant to do so. Even if he had been told it was no trouble, he knew it was more than it was worth.

He fidgeted, clenching his fingers around the coiled cord that connected the phone to the receiver. He dialed the numbers still imprinted in his brain from the day they had been hastily scribbled with a wolfish grin and intoxicating charm. The phone rang once, twice, three times, and Eddie began to put the phone back in its cradle when he heard a warm voice call out.

“Hello! This is Hawkins Physio Clinic, Dr. Harrington’s office. How may I help you?”

Eddie felt his face flush at the rush that hearing Steve’s voice gave him.

“Um H-hi,” Eddie coughed as he tried to clear the nervous lump from his throat,” Hey Steve.”

His words came out weak and nervous to his ears, he couldn’t imagine how it sounded to Steve.

Eddie could practically hear the grin that Steve was wearing through the phone.

“What can I do for you Eds,” Steve huffed out behind quiet chuckles.

Eddie tried to think before he spoke, but the words were flashing like the overwhelming neon signs that covered the porn capital of seemingly the world, Times Square. He continued to stumble through his words.

“Well, you said, uh,” his words were stubbornly refusing to come out of his mouth, thick with nerves,” you said if my joints were giving trouble, to call you.”

Eddie was not used to this. Asking for help was difficult and normally he wouldn’t ask, letting the issue fester, but he was dying. The pain was consistent and recurring. Somedays were good, but for the last week, he had mainly bad days filled with tears and laying on the floor praying for the pain to pass.

“I did say that. Are you finally taking me up on my offer? I’ve been told that I’ve got the magic touch.”

God, the cocky assurance in his voice was enough to make Eddie stand at attention in more ways than one, but another jolt of agony quickly snubbed that thought out.

“Fuck.”

It slipped past his lips before he could stop himself. His free hand gripped his thigh as he slid himself down to the ground waiting for the pain to pass. His breath was coming out short and a little frantic.

“Eddie, are you okay?”

Steve’s voice was warm and sweet like heated milk before bed as the cockiness dissipated, replaced with concern. Eddie wanted to answer, but the pain was crashing in waves and drowning him mercilessly. Still, he tries to answer.

“Ye-,” Eddie takes a deep breath in, feeling a few tears slip past his bottom eyelid,” Yeah, Steve. My nerves are just-”

Eddie breathes in again. He can’t stop the slew of pants leaving his lungs. 

“-misfiring. Just misfiring or whatever the fuck the doctor said,” he finally choked out, his voice tense and seizing with stress.

“I’ll be right there, okay? Just stay put.”

Eddie laughs at that although it comes out weak and soft.

“Where am I gonna go?”

“Oh shut up, you dork. You know what I mean.”

Eddie laughs a bit more before a groan leaves his lips at another jolt. He hears the click of disconnection and puts the phone down on the floor before laying on the tiles hoping for the chilly ceramic to ease the continuous, seizing torture. 

Eddie is still on the floor when a series of knocks echoes around him. Three rapid ones followed by four spaced out. Steve was here.

“It’s open,” Eddie calls out as he strains with tension.

Steve steps in and immediately heads to Eddie with graceful movements. Eddie looks at him through slitted eyes. Steve reaches down, pulling Eddie close, and murmuring sweet words to him. You’re so good, doing amazing, such a strong guy, so strong for me; flowing past his plush lips into Eddie’s ears.

A warm, secure, big hand grips Eddie’s hip as the palm presses down and drags his hip, resulting in a quick crack and Eddie feeling his joint loosen. Eddie pushed his face into Steve’s shoulder letting those hands massage his hip and the muscles surrounding it.

 God, Steve did have the magic touch, Eddie thought to himself with each warm bout of pressure. 

He let a sigh slip as those hands deviated to pop his shoulder before massaging the sore blades. He felt good, floaty in Steve’s care.

“There we go. Good job Eds. Always so good for me.”

Eddie feels his cheeks glow red as he tries not to think of the implications of those words. Eddie stays wrapped in Steve’s arms, comfortable.

“Thank you,” he stutters out with relief weighing his voice down.

Steve grins down at him with something akin to infatuation glimmering brightly in his gaze. Eddie couldn’t help but stare unabashedly at the pretty picture that Steve Harrington made. His warm brown eyes brimming with life. His little moles that were perfectly placed on his face as though planned. Those stupidly perfect, stupidly white teeth that Eddie had thought only possible in movies. Who could forget the hair? That stupidly styled mop of gorgeous mousy brown hair. Steve was stunning in Eddie’s eyes.

“If you really want to thank me, you could let me take you out this Saturday; see that new sequel to Alien?”

“You have the worst timing for things. Robin was right, you are a dingus,” Eddie teased, laughing at the way Steve looked away with a blush that went as far as the tips of his ears. 

“Shut up,” he grumbled out, squeezing Eddie just a little tighter. 

After Steve had finally collected himself, he looked at Eddie questioningly,” So? Are you letting me take you out?”

Eddie nodded with a grin, boyish and wide. 

Steve responded with a match grin and confirmation.

“It’s a date.”

[hellcheer-heaven]

Scars and All

Eddie survived the attack, but was left with many painful scars on his body.  Chrissy heads over to the hospital to visit him like she did every day since the gang returned to Hawkins.  They soon learn that not all scars need to be visible to be acknowledged, sometimes the ones that can't be seen can still hurt.

The residents of Hawkins were still trying their best to rebuild in a post-Vecna world. It was a miracle that both Dustin and Chrissy were able to save Eddie after the Demobats attacked him.  Wayne stayed by his nephew's side at the hospital each day, refusing to leave even when he needed to rest up himself.  Much like Lucas, he feared the worst for the one that he cared about so dearly.  Eddie had survived, but he didn't come out unscathed. All of bites and lacerations left by those monstrous creatures plagued his skin.

Doctor's orders involved bed rest, taking medications, and lathering ointments on his damaged body. Chrissy would visit him each day and help lather his scars with ointment. Giving him a hopeful smile and news about what the gang was doing to help out those in need. He listened, but his mind was back at that horrible place. Waking up screaming in the middle of the night that those things were attacking him. Wayne would need to be held back by hospital staff when Eddie needed to be sedated for his safety. He would then be able to rest, but even when he slept he found himself back in the Upside Down. Witnessing those monsters rip Chrissy to bits like a pack of lions to a lone zebra. He tried to save her, but he was trapped by the dark vines. Forced to watch the only girl that he loved scream in terrible agony, extending her arm out and crying his name. Waking up in a cold sweat, his heart rate rising when he woke up. Everything was all the same, the only thing that changed was the formation of the moon just outside his window.

His room was filled with get well soon cards, homemade treats, and drawings from Will Byers. Even with all of the love and support that he was given, he felt truly repulsive. Eddie would forever bear those scars for the remainder of his days. He no longer felt like the wild and happy go lucky guy that he once was, or at least pretended to be. Eddie believed that he was a monster, breaking down and crying whenever he was truly alone in the hospital bed. No one would know or even believe the things that everyone in the group saw in that dreaded place.  Much of the town was still against him, no thanks to Jason Carver who fanned the flames of hatred. Believing in his ridiculous delusions and continuing to spread such slanderous lies that Eddie had kidnapped Chrissy to be used a human sacrifice to the Devil.

Jason was the real monster here, Chrissy never saw Eddie like that. She saw a good man. Someone who didn't run away. Someone who was willing to be a hero, even though he put his life at great risk. Chrissy saw Eddie Munson.  The boy who loved metal music. A boy who is kind and welcoming to outsiders. The most understanding person that listened to her during a difficult time in her life. He needed her and she needed him.

Chrissy saw Wayne smoking through a pack just outside of the hospital.  Silently praying that this whole ordeal would end soon.

Chrissy felt her heart drop, "Mr. Munson is he-"

He saw the fear in her eyes, quickly answering her question, "Eddie's fine Chrissy. He's um... he just wanted to be alone.”  Wayne breathed out the dark smoke from his nostrils, "He's been waiting to see you."

"You're not coming with me?"

Wayne took another inhale, "He wants to talk to you. Go ahead, I'll be here." Chrissy signed in and made her way down the familiar halls, remembering that sense of uneasiness when she was brought here in eighth grade. So sick and weak from eating so little, just so she could remain at a certain size that was considered ladylike to her mother.  Her mother informed the doctors that she was eating enough, but she required more if she was going to be healthy enough to stand up. Laura increased the portion size of her meals, barely, but enough for Chrissy to at least make it until lunch time; that is if she wasn't already feeling sick to her stomach after purging that morning. Chrissy told herself to keep going, she had to focus on Eddie and what he needed. Her blue eyes glanced over at the figure of Max all hooked up to machines, a breathing tube down her throat. Lucas held her hand and spoke to her, his voice hardly above a whisper, holding to that sense of hope that she was still there.  Chrissy's hand grasped the handle of Eddie's room, closing her eyes and saying a silent prayer before entering.

Eddie appeared the same as he did the many times she had seen him before.  Exhausted and unhappy, and more than ready to leave this place. The once bedazzling sparkle that he had in those brown eyes of his had left as soon as he woke up in the hospital. He could sense her presence, but didn't want to look at her. Chrissy once again gave him a smile and some semblance of joy as she sat in the chair next to his bed.

"Hello Eddie." she calmly stated. "How are you feeling today?"

The same question that everyone asked him. How was he feeling? Well, he couldn't find the nicest words for it, but if he had to choose: Unpleasant.

She figured that it was best to cut to the chase rather than give him updates about the town, "Your uncle said that you wanted to see me."

Eddie grunted as he sat up, despite Chrissy's protest he planted himself at the edge of his hospital bed. He reached out his arms, a little whimper escaping his parted lips; Chrissy hurried and gave him what he needed.  Embracing him in the sweetest hug that she could muster, it was all he ever wanted from her. There was so much more, but now didn't seem like the right time. He buried his face into the Hellfire Club shirt that she borrowed from him.

"I'm so sorry Chrissy" he wept, his scarred arms firmly wrapped around her waist. "I shouldn't have gone back. I'm such a idiot!"

Chrissy tried to remain strong, running her fingers through his curly locks, "Shh, you don't need to apologize Eddie. You helped save everyone in Hawkins. You're a hero.”

He shook his head, "No! I'm no hero. I'm just some moron that got lucky." Eddie grasped the baggy shirt, “I should've died down there."

Her heart quivered. Chrissy looked him dead in the eyes, keeping back her own tears, "Don't you ever say that Eddie Munson! We all went in there together and we all got out together!"

His tears streamed down his cheeks, he could see the whites of her eyes becoming red just like his, "Chrissy."

She quickly wiped her eyes before anything fell out, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you." She clenched her jaw, trying to find a way to speak around the lump forming in her throat. "Maybe you are 'lucky; but you know what? You're alive. All of us are alive." She turned around and held herself, her own tears coming down, "If you died down there, I would have never forgiven myself. And poor Dustin.." She sighed, looking up at the white ceiling, "You're like a big brother to him, he worships you. Just like he worships Steve."

He felt the strings in his heart getting plucked one by one, but his self loathing still took over, "Oh yeah, that's really great." His anger fueled eyes met hers, "Two people like me. How much more wonderful can my life be?"

She flared her nostrils, “What is your problem?" The nerve of this woman! He stood up and crossed his arms, "My problem? You really want to know what my problem is?" Eddie pointed his finger to the television monitor, "Have you actually been watching the local news lately? I mean it's not like I have a target on my back or something. Oh wait, I do actually, no thanks to Jason!"

Chrissy faced him standing on her tip toes to meet his height, "You think I honestly care what Jason says about you?"

He then began to put a finger up, more than ready to add more to his countdown list, "Hmm, why don't we break this down Chrissy? Number 1: I've been known by my alias as "Freak" as far back as I can remember.   Number 2: Everyone looks at me like I'm nothing but poor white trash. Number 3: If you haven't already noticed I listen to music and play a table top game that 'supposedly' has links to devil worship.  And last but certainly not least, Number 4: Your boyfriend, Mr. Wannabe NBA Allstar starts playing Televangelist with the press and says all this shit about me like I'm fucking a serial killer!"

Chrissy's cheeks turned as red as the blood pumping through her veins, "Well what do you expect me to do Eddie?!"

He clenched his fists, using his height to his advantage, “How about telling that fucking prick of a boyfriend to shut his mouth before I actually kill him! Oh yeah, then l'll finally be able to live up to my newest identity as a murderer!"

All that could be heard from the room was an echo. Chrissy's hand came down hard across his face, his cheek glowing as her opened hand shook. They said nothing, even when they looked at each other.

She took a step forward, her voice still filled with frustration, "Do you wanna know something about me and Jason? We broke up."

That last message hit his brain like a hammer to a nail, "You-You what?"

Her scowl was as sharp as a knife, “That's right. As soon as we came back, he found out about us. I told him what we saw and I told him what your friends told me." Her fists tightened up, "Jason told me that I was 'crazy' and that you warped my mind." She took a seat on his bed, "That's not the first time he's called me that. He's called me crazy for lots of things. Whenever I get upset with him for treating me like shit. When he isn't there to support me after my mom hurts me, blaming me for making her angry." She hugged her legs close to her chest, "I told him that nothing happened between us. That all we did was try to save everyone in this ungrateful town."

Eddie held her hand, his skin so rough against her soft flesh, "Chrissy, I'm so sorry.”

She sniffed, looking away from him and feeling so guilty for talking. He was the one hurting, why should she have to take that away from him? Yet Eddie was here to listen, "No, it's my fault. I shouldn't have said anything. Not to you or him." She sighed heavily, "He said that I was a liar and that I 'betrayed' him. That I ruined everything that he worked so hard for. She shut her eyes, "Jason tried to hurt me, so I hit him. I hit him so hard that he couldn't believe what I did." Chrissy took a breath, although it came out shallow, "I told him it was over. All of the lies and pretending that everything is okay between us, when it never was." Her sobbing eyes looked up at the boy with the scars, “I don't want to be with someone who makes me feel worthless. Someone who controls and decides what I want and when I want it.”  She took his other hand, "I stopped loving Jason a long time ago Eddie."

He cradled her face, thumbs moving aside her tears, "Sweetheart...”

The guilt still there, quickly standing up and more than ready to head out, “'ll leave you alone." Her eyes widened when Eddie brought her back, keeping her body close to his. "Eddie?"

A part of his brain chastised him for not connecting the pieces together sooner. In the single week that they were together, more than prepared to face potential Armageddon with an otherworldly being, he never considered saying something. Absolutely anything to her. Just a simple question about herself and how things were going in her life. He could have asked her to elaborate more when Chrissy prompted him with her question: "Do you ever feel like you're losing your mind?" That was in the past and nothing could be changed. The hands of time cannot go in reverse, they can only move forward. Eddie was not the little boy with a buzzed haircut who was too afraid to ask Chrissy to the middle school winter formal. He wasn't the scrawny and gangly looking teenager who wanted to gift her a candy gram for Valentines Day, only to see Jason offer her a stuffed bear and flowers. And he certainly couldn't go back to ask her what she meant by losing her mind. There were many questions he wanted to ask her, but only one came up. All she could do was tell him the honest truth. All he needed to do was ask the question.

Eddie took a deep breath, gazing sweetly into her sad blue eyes, "Do you love me?"

Chrissy felt her heart racing. She couldn't give an answer, all she could give him was a kiss. One so gentle and so endearing, soft like a summer breeze and as warm as a fireplace in the wintertime. The world around them had no sound, all they could hear was music playing in their ears. Beautiful and lovely as the kiss that they shared.  Eddie felt the edge of the hospital bed and sat right back down, continuing his embrace with Chrissy. Finally they parted, blue sky aligned with brown earth.

Everything felt right for just that brief moment. The sounds of the hospital returned in their ear drums, but all they could hear and feel were each other's breathing. Chrissy could see him and Eddie could see her.

She held him again, rubbing the back of his head as he looked up at her through his eyelashes. His bright smile lighting up the room, "Scars and all?”

She nodded, his smile was infectious and she showed hers to him, "Scars and all."

Wayne made his way over to Eddie's room, he hadn't seen Chrissy in a while.   Some sodas and few bags of chips tucked under his arm. His eyes went to the window first before his hand reached the doorknob. The sight of the two of them in such an affectionate embrace made his old heart warm up. He was never one for romance, at least not since his youth. Seeing Eddie smile, an actual smile spread across that mischievous face gave him what many in this town needed.

Hope.

The scars would remain, but the healing could begin. It may take a lifetime, but the healing could begin. It may take a lifetime, but at least they could start and perhaps end it together.

[cyberwolf0replicant]

Things about Seiji (OC)

I did the random things for Nina but not for Seiji. Let's get to know a little more about him! (I originally created him for the RPG as a NPC but I like him a lot and he is a very important person for my V Nina)

1. The scar on Seiji's forehead dates back to 2064 when he was 17 years old. During a bloody fight over territory, he was arrested by the NCPD. His father, Yanase Takeo, leader of a Tiger Claw clan, had to pick him up himself at the police station. Proud to defy his father, young Seiji just shrugged his shoulders when Takeo lectured him back home. A bad idea. Takeo made a brief but violent gesture with his hand, and his signet ring landed right on the young man's forehead.

2. Seiji spends a lot of time at the Tiger Claws dojo to train with swords and/or to clear his head by punching a punching bag after a difficult mission or just to train himself but when he needs to relax he spends time at the temple to meditate or pray at the shrine. When they were still kids, Seiji sometimes brought back small trinkets to Nina thanks to the few eddies he earned by helping the monks to clean the place.

3. Nina and Seiji like to ride their motorcycles around Night City and around the Badlands to race after dark. When they finish their ride, they often stop by the dam to look at Night City from afar. In these moments Seiji feels free, free from the responsibilities that his father wants to impose on him within the Clan.

4. Sometimes, when his younger sister Kyoko comes to visit him at his apartment to have a quiet place to practice her bass music, Seiji accompanies her on the electric guitar. Spending time with his sister is one of the things he cherishes, as are the times he spends with Nina for whom he has always felt a deep affection, and later even love. For Seiji, family is sacred. It is better not to attack his family.

5. Among the T-Claws, Seiji is nicknamed "Habu" (a venomous snake), partly because of his silver snake-like eye implants, but mostly because of his reputation. An assassin for hire, mostly for the Clans, he is known for his discretion, and his swift killings. Clean, silent and efficient. However, his reputation will end up costing him his life when a bounty on his head is offered by an unknown financer. He will be killed one night in May 2075. Nina will find the killer, but not the instigator. She will suspect a corporation or a rival clan of his father Yanase Takeo, but without ever discovering the truth.

[rhetoricandlogic]

REVIEW: The Thief by Megan Whalen Turner

Dear Ms. Turner,

Your young adult fantasy novel, The Thief, was named a 1997 Newbery Honor Book, an ALA Notable Book, and an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. After hearing good things about the series that begins with this book from two different friends, I was eager to begin reading it.

So it comes about that Gen agrees, and the next day, he begins a journey to an unknown destination in the company of the Magus, a soldier named Pol, and two young men that Gen dubs Useless the Elder and Useless the Younger. Gen must make the journey on horseback, and he is not very good on horses. He is also weak and hungry because of the time he spent in prison. Therefore he is not always on his best behavior as the group travels, and tensions begin to develop in the group.

Since Gen bragged about stealing the king's seal, the Magus thinks Gen is a good thief but a stupid one. He plans to use Gen as he might a tool, like a hammer, but he doesn't accord him anymore respect than he would a hammer. Gen, who had reasons for bragging about his thieving that he doesn't want to reveal, is chafed by the Magus' attitude.

Then there is Useless the Elder, whose real name is Ambiades. He is the kind of person who looks down at anyone from a lower station, and sees most people as being below himself. To say that Ambiades is difficult to get along with is an understatement, and Gen doesn't even bother trying.

On the other hand, Gen comes to like Pol and Useless the Younger, whose real name is Sophos. Pol is very capable and Sophos friendly to Gen.

During their travels, the group passes from the Kingdom of Sounis to that of Eddis. Gen's mother was from Eddis, and he is familiar with its religion, in which a different, older set of gods is worshipped than the ones prayed to in Sounis and Attolia. To make the journey more enjoyable and to educate Ambiades and Sophos, the Magus begins to tell Eddis's creation myth to the other men. Gen knows different variations of these stories from his mother, and eventually, he too begins to tell the others stories about the old gods.

Some of the dynamics between Gen and his companions begin to change as the journey progresses. Gen also learns that the object he will be stealing is something that could shift the balance of power between the three kingdoms of Sounis, Eddis, and Attolia. When, about halfway through, the travelers reach their destination, the place turns out to be more mysterious and magical than Gen imagined.

Will Gen succeed in stealing something where countless others have failed? And what will happen to him and his companions after this attempt? What will happen to the balance of power between Sounis, Eddis, and Attolia? Those things are left to the reader to discover, and in the process, we also learn that not everything is what it appears to be.

It took me a while to get involved in the story because although Gen's narration was very well written, his character was not instantly sympathetic to me. In the beginning of the book he is portrayed as a rather selfish person who cares mostly about his own comfort and about becoming famous through an extraordinary theft. This does change as the book continues, and I gradually grew to like him better.

The first half of the book seemed somewhat slow to me. The tension between Gen and his companions begins with mild annoyances, and I felt a bit impatient while waiting for something of greater significance to happen. The myths of the old gods held my interest, and I thought that you did a terrific job of making them unique, and giving them the flavor of mythology at the same time.

The second half of the book held more excitement, and I especially liked what happened when Gen and his traveling companions reached the place where the object he came to steal was located. There were some twists that were revealed at the end of the book, and even though I had guessed one of them all along, there were others that surprised me.

The setting of The Thief is based on Greece, and it was refreshing to read a fantasy with a Mediterranean flavor. I enjoyed the little details such as the characters eating olives and cheese for lunch and yogurt for breakfast, but one little detail that threw me was the mention of guns. Although they were said to be less accurate than crossbows, I still had to revise my mental picture of the society of this world. Because everyone traveled on horseback and there were no other inventions as advanced that were mentioned, I had not anticipated that guns would exist in Sounis, Eddis or Attolia.

While I can’t rave about The Thief, I enjoyed it enough to look for the next book in the series, especially in light of a spoiler I’ve know about and in light of how passionately some readers love that book.

As for this book, although I think it may be a better read for young adults than for grownups like me, it’s still good enough to get a a B- from me.

Sincerely,

Janine

[erin-bo-berin]

me: that's it. I'm totally out of Steve fic ideas. I will never have another idea as long as I live.

also me, four hours later:

Best friends Steve and reader have just started moving their relationship into romantic territory, but things were very new, and they didn’t want to let the crew in on it just yet—they were still getting used to it themselves.

The whole group decides to go camping at the lake, which provides an ideal backdrop for flirtatious comments, stolen touches/glances around the campfire, and of course eyeing each other up in your swimsuits. Too bad you can’t do too much more than look, because the party’s constantly around, and already picking up on the fact that something’s shifting between the two of you (mostly bc lovestruck Steve's about as subtle as a brick wall).

When it’s finally time for bed, the kids head for their tent, and the older teens lay out under the stars. Praying everyone’s asleep, you invite Steve to sneak into your sleeping bag for some much-needed fluffy cuddles and—though it would be way too risky to actually do anything—you propose an idea: the two of you can certainly describe (in smutty detail) exactly what you would be doing, if you had some privacy.

SIGH. You know the drill, Erin. Only if you wanna. ❤️,☄️

How in the world do you come up with such amazing ideas? When I first read this I was INSTANTLY excited about writing this. You are a QUEEN. Thank you for always requesting ❤️

This is SO LONG, I’m sorry!

Also let’s pretend that the reader is Nancy in this gif because it’s so appropriate for the story. And because will I ever tire of using gifs of Steve looking THIS GOOD? No, I will not.

Campfire Thoughts

Steve Harrington x Reader

Warnings: Smut (Nothing actually too physical, but plenty of talk of sexual activities later on this fic)

Steve Harrington gave you butterflies.

As true as that statement was, the situation was much more complicated.

You and Steve had been best friends for years, since middle school in fact. You and he had became friends at only 12 years old when you both were still carefree, free of any responsibilities, complicated feelings and troubling social classes.

By high school, you’d unfortunately drifted apart when he took on his King Steve persona, so unlike the guy you knew he truly was. In the period he was like a stranger to you, you just got through high school. You weren’t popular like Steve, but you weren’t exactly unpopular. You had a small group of friends—which you were content with—and made decent grades. High school had pretty much been uneventful for you.

In a series of events, you two crossed paths again through mutual friends and picked up like you’d never been apart for so long. Although now, things were a bit different.

You two had just entered adulthood recently, leaving your teens behind you. At twenty, things had began changing. He was no longer the cute little preteen you’d once befriended, playing with during summer evenings and telling all your secrets to. He’d grown up to be a kind, thoughtful and handsome young man.

Now, your friendship had turned romantic. It was still so new, you’d yet to tell any of your mutual friends. It was still sinking in that you were Steve’s girlfriend and you were lucky enough to call him your boyfriend. You’d kept the development to yourselves as it was in such early stages and you and Steve slowly navigated the changes yourselves.

But, it was going to prove to be difficult to keep under wraps this weekend.

Somehow, you and Steve were roped into a camping weekend along Lover’s Lake. Even the landscape was taunting you with its name.

You were a bit disappointed to know that you’d have to share Steve with the rest of the group for the next three days.

It had been the younger teens’ idea to go camping, at first. Of course, since they couldn’t go alone, Nancy and Jonathan joined the trip, wheedling you two to join, Eddie and Robin rounding out your group at an even dozen.

You were a loud group, but the air was buzzing with excitement for fun and new adventures. The camp was set up and tents started to be assembled. There were just enough for the younger teens to split in two, you and the elders of the bunch deciding just to sleep around the campfire under the stars when it came bedtime.

For now, you attempted to keep your eyes from gravitating to Steve as he was bent at the waist, helping Dustin set up a tent. He pushed his hair back with a hand and you couldn’t even begin to describe the warm, fuzzy feeling of new love, newly formed attraction that fizzed inside you like an Alka-Seltzer.

He straightened and caught you smiling, sending you a gentle, but dazzling smile your way. You really needed to watch yourself around him or else your actions would expose yourself.

It was odd though, thinking about it. You’d spent years comfortable around him and all of a sudden you it was as if you were both shyer around one another. You felt like a giddy school girl with a crush. Perhaps it was just you and his way of navigating this new territory between you two, but it would be torture trying to micromanage your expressions without giving yourself away.

It wasn’t that you and Steve weren’t happy to share the news, but as all new things are, you were still getting used to them yourselves. Honestly, it was still kind of nice to have this period of time transitioning to a new phase just between you two. Having it be private for the moment made it feel that more magic and surreal.

It was Jonathan and Will who suggested the group go on a hike through the woods. It was quite amusing at the array of varying responses.

“Come on, we can’t enjoy a camping trip without hiking!” Will proclaimed.

He and Jonathan used to camp in their backyard when they were younger, dreaming about being able to do the real thing one day. Although Hawkins didn’t exactly have any true campgrounds around, camping near Lover’s Lake wasn’t a bad location.

“I’m up for it,” Max shrugged, following.

There were some whining. A majority of it coming from Robin, Dustin and your boyfriend.

Your boyfriend.

Would you ever get used to that?

You just shook your head, smiling to yourself at how endearing Steve was. It was amusing that he was complaining when even Eddie wasn’t, he being the one to quickly voice when he was not into something.

The rest of the group followed the Byers into the woods, but Steve stayed back, waiting for you. He smiled, gently knocking his hand against yours, daring to give it a quick squeeze.

“So why are you complaining about a hike, Harrington?” you asked out loud, following him and the rest through the trees.

“It’s hot,” he whined.

“There’s a lake, Steve,” Dustin called, “We can swim later. Stop whining.”

You chuckled, shoulder bumping into his arm. Your friends were none the wiser.

Or so it seemed.

•

The hike had been nice, but Steve was right. At the peak of the day, it had been extremely hot.

The lake was a welcome relief to sweaty and tired bodies. Everyone stripped to their bathing suits they’d purposely donned before the trek into the woods.

The kids had discovered a rock they could jump safely from into the lake. Their whoops and cries filled the early afternoon, laughter, voices and splashes accompanying the other joyous sounds.

Steve sat on a log around the yet to be lit campfire. It was typically a lot cooler at night this late into summer with fall slowly approaching, its cool fingers like a whisper of a touch over the entire town of Hawkins. By nightfall, the fire would be very much welcomed.

No, he’d yet to shed his shirt or head to the lake because he sat watching you. You did funny things to his stomach, twisting it in knots in the most pleasant way, his heart skipping at any sight of you. You were beautiful lit by the bright sun behind you, all the way up on the rock, ready for a dive.

He’d seen you in a bikini plenty of times before, but it was so much different this time. You were his and he now felt he could appreciate just how beautiful you were. It almost like it was a rite of passage to finally let go of the worry about his stare lingering on you for too long, back when you’d both been under the delusion that you were only platonic.

There was nothing skimpy about the bikini, it was just the same as the other girls were wearing, a high waisted bottom with most likely a matching top, but something about the one you wore was positively magical. The bright print was loud and colorful, but looked amazing against your skin tone. The top, which tied behind you neck and around your back with a thin, yellow string, covered enough of your boobs to the point it showed off just the swell of them. They’d bounce gracefully when you ran, laughed or moved, basically.

All to say was Steve was practically in a trance because of you and it was effortless on your part, you were just busy laughing and diving into the lake. You surfaced, pushing your wet hair back and waved towards him, smiling in his direction.

He was pretty sure this scene beat Phoebe Cates one in Fast Times, for sure.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” he heard a familiar, teasing voice.

He looked over to see Robin walking over with an arm full of wood for the campfire later on. Jonathan and Eddie were busy chopping a supply of it while Nancy and Robin aided.

His face heated, embarrassed that he was caught staring.

Robin dropped the pile next to the fire pit for easier access when they needed it, then cocked a hip, putting her hand on her hip.

“It’s totally obvious, you know.”

“What is?” he asked, trying to play innocent.

“That you’re in love with Y/N,” she smiled at him, motioning her head to where you were splashing and laughing with Max.

He said nothing for a moment, just studying you from the distance.

“Is it?”

“Why don’t you do something about it, then?” Robin asked.

He tried to keep the smirk off his face, but found himself smiling as he turned back to watch you.

“Maybe I will.”

•

You had just pulled yourself out of the lake, ringing out your dripping hair when the rest of the older teens finally joined having finished their earlier tasks.

“Done already?” you heard behind you.

You whipped around, seeing Steve.

“Not in the slightest, it’s refreshing,” you chuckled, “I was heading back up to “Jump Point” as the kids are calling it. You coming in?”

“Yeah, one second.”

He pulled off his shirt, turning to toss it towards his stuff and your eyes couldn’t help themselves. They completely had a mind of their own.

You took in his tan back, muscles rippling with his movements, moles littering the entire canvas in a way that should not be as attractive for something so innocuous.

Sure, you’d seen Steve shirtless many times, but you’d never quite appreciated him like this. You were now kicking yourself for all the time you’d wasted. He turned back to you, his chest on display now.

He was fit, but not ripped, which was definitely more your style and he made it look so good. His biceps were the true star of the show, fitness wise, nice, natural, but definitely defined muscles were there. More moles scattered over his chest and stomach—how did he make them look so good? Maybe because it was just a part of him, just something they was uniquely his.

Also, when the fuck did you start appreciating chest hair? It made him look more mature than his 20 years, reminding you that he was now a man and no longer that little boy you once knew. The dark hair wasn’t unruly or as bad as some you’d seen—it was middle of the ballpark. Not a huge amount, but not nonexistent either. It spread over his chest and pecs and you were most likely staring too long. By his amused gaze, he’d most definitely noticed.

Your eyes looked, a small smile on his face and you stared at him a beat longer than probably appeared normal. A throat cleared behind him and you both turned to see Dustin, eyeing you both.

“Everything okay here?”

“Yup, just ready to take a dip,” Steve nodded.

“Yeah, I was just heading back up,” you said, pointing to Jump Point.

He nodded, still looking as he didn’t quite believe you both, but walked off without further comment, heading back up the makeshift boulder diving board.

“Actually, I have a better idea,” Steve grinned, scooping you up, in his arms, heading straight for the lake.

“Steve!” you squealed, laughing, holding onto his neck, “What’re you—ah!”

You shrieked as he tossed you into the lake, sending you into the cool water before you knew what was happening. You heard a splash following soon after and you surfaced, Steve popping up next to you, shaking his hair of water like a wet dog.

Droplets of water sprayed you and you laughed, putting your hands up in front of your face as if that would protect you from the liquid attack.

“Steve, stop!”

You were laughing so hard, your stomach was cramping from the effort, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t feel more carefree.

Knowing his arms would be concealed under the water, he wrapped them around your waist, pulling you to him.

“Hey,” he smiled, laughter fading into a quiet happiness.

“Hey,” you responded, peering up at him.

His wet hair dripped down his face, water droplets gliding down the smooth skin and you found yourself wanting to kiss each one, just for the pleasure of kissing him.

His usual brown eyes shone in the sunlight, turning them a brilliant light brown, as warm and captivating like they were liquid honey. His smile—one of the many things you loved about him as he had such a nice smile—lit up his face. But this was one of his special grins that was broad and slightly crooked, his light pink lips parted just enough that you could see not only his row of white teeth on the top, but a peek of the bottom row. It was your absolute favorite smile of his.

The six kids were currently playing chicken a few feet away, occupied with who could knock over the first person out of the three pairs. Max was on Lucas’ shoulders, El on Mike’s and Dustin on Will’s, their shrieks and laughter floating over to you and Steve. You saw Robin and Eddie on the shore, feet dipping in the water. Eddie smoking a cigarette which Robin quickly plucked from his lips and tossed into the water, much to his dismay. Nancy and Jonathan were swimming laps around one other, lost in their own world and it was an adorable sight.

Steve took the opportunity to steal a kiss, while everyone was preoccupied.

His lips were soft against yours, gentle as he kissed you sweetly. For such a chaste kiss, it was still passionate and sensual, leaving you wanting more than just one taste of his lips.

It was over before you realized and you already missed his lips. One look at home told you he felt the same. At this point, you didn’t care if everyone found out about you two if it meant you could stay here and kiss him more.

“Hey Steve! Will you carry me on your shoulders? Me and Will keep losing over here!” Dustin hollered.

“It’s not my fault you’re ticklish!” Will scoffed, amused.

“Tickling shouldn’t be allowed as a means to defeat!” Dustin protested.

“Ah, duty calls,” Steve grinned wryly, though he looked like he wanted to do nothing but stay with you.

“Go on,” you chuckled, a shy smile on your face.

His kiss was still lingering on your lips, making them tingle. Your head felt light and fuzzy like you’d drank one of the beers in the ice chest at the campsite that was being saved for later. One kiss and you were practically drunk on Steve—not that that’d been the first one. There had been lots and lots of kissing in the last few weeks.

“Catch you later,” he smiled, swimming away.

When you looked back toward the shoreline, you saw both Robin and Eddie smirking at you before looking away quickly, realizing they were caught.

You swam back towards them, reaching for your towel on a nearby rock, wrapping it around you before sitting down next to them.

“What are you two so smiley about? Don’t tell me you’re planning a practical joke of epic proportions,” you teased.

“Can you be any more obvious, Y/L/N?” Eddie smirked.

You blinked.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you clearly have the hots for Harrington,” he replied, brow arched.

“And it’s so obvious he likes you too,” Robin said, “Everyone can see it but you two, apparently.”

You had to hide your small smile, as you looked down, bringing your knees to your chest, locking your arms around them. Your answering response was sly.

“I don’t know. Guess we’ll just have to wait and see what happens, don’t we?”

•

Evening was approaching and a chill cooled the air significantly. Steve, Mike and Will helped Jonathan start the fire, everyone else breaking off to do different tasks.

After drying in the sun, you’d slipped your shirt back on until you went to change in one of the tents before the boys started the bonfire. You’d shed the bikini, opting for the longer, looser, pajamas pants you’d brought with you. You slipped on an old t-shirt you’d packed to accompany it, although you found yourself wishing you could curl up in one of Steve’s shirts. When you returned, you saw a few others already in their makeshift pajamas.

Nancy and Robin were gathering the packed roasting sticks, laying them out. They were going to be the skewers for the hot dogs the group had brought to roast over the fire—marshmallows later for the inevitable s’mores.

You joined Max and Dustin, helping them set up the nearby picnic table in a little serve yourself bar-like fashion. Nancy, being the most organized of the group really had thought of everything.

There were hot dog buns for those who wanted them and a small variety of condiments—mustard, ketchup, relish and mayo. Anyone who wanted mayo on their hot dog baffled you, but, each to their own.

Eddie was sticking hot dogs on the skewers, handing them out to the kids who’d come to claim one. Lucas worked on laying out the s’mores half of the picnic table.

With a few bags of marshmallows—that surely would go quick with the size of your group—a pile of graham crackers still in their sleeves and a numerous amount of Hershey’s chocolate bars, the set up was complete.

Everyone gathered around the campfire once it was blazing, the warmth chasing away the chill. A variety of conversations went on, the chatter and the crackling of the fire oddly comforting to you.

Hot dogs were roasted and prepared. The cooler that held a mixture of water bottles, beer and soda was soon dwindling.

“Uh, I don’t think so,” Eddie said, snatching a beer out of Mike’s hand as he passed.

“Oh come on, you’re drinking!” he protested.

“I’m also not 14,” Eddie replied, tossing it back into the cooler.

“Lucas snagged one too,” Mike said, brow raised in defiance.

“Nope, nope, nope. Hand it over Sinclair,” Steve said, jumping to his feet, hand out.

“Oh come on,” Lucas whined.

“Didn’t you guys drink when you were our age?” Will asked, the other boys nodding like he’d made a good point.

Steve grabbed the unopened beer from Lucas, opening it for himself, Lucas grumbling in response.

“Yeah and look how we turned out,” Steve replied.

“Pathetic?” Max deadpanned.

“Just remember who drives you to the mall,” Steve warned, taking a swig of the beer.

El giggled, taking a bite of her hot dog, giving Max a look you could only describe as a sibling would when mom or dad scolded you.

“Yeah, yeah, you know I love you,” Max waved off.

“I’m so under appreciated,” he mumbled.

You snickered, trying to hide your face and laughter. You loved the ease of the banter between this huge group of friends. It felt like home.

Steve still picked up on your giggles. He winked at you, nudging his foot against yours. You send a nudge back, as if letting him know you appreciated the gesture.

There were bouts of silence as everyone enjoyed their hot dogs. Normally, you weren’t crazy about them, but something about how they tasted after being roasted over the fire just made them extra delicious.

At one point, you thought you saw a few boys each put three or four away on their own. Surprisingly, no buns were left when you were done.

Nancy discreetly packed the hot dog condiments away in her bag as it became fine for dessert. You swore, it would be utter chaos if it wasn’t for the young woman.

“Who’s ready for s’mores?” Robin called.

You couldn’t tell who was more excited for them, the kids or Steve and Eddie. Robin tossed a bag of the marshmallows to El and she opened them, beginning the passing around of the bag.

The person would get one, stick it on the end of the skewer and pass the bag along. Steve grabbed two when the bag reached the end of the circle at you two. He handed you one with a smile.

“Thanks.”

You slid it on the end of the metal rod, holding it out to the fire, slowly turning it.

“You been having fun?” you asked, peeking over at him as he concentrated on not burning his marshmallow.

“I have,” he nodded, “I never would’ve thought I’d be admitting camping is so much fun.”

“Same,” you laughed, “But they typically make loads of things fun,” you said, nodding towards the rest of the group.

“Yeah, but you’ve also made it better too,” he said softly.

“I have?” you asked, surprised.

“Yeah, you have.”

Your gaze stayed on him, lost in the world of just Steve, everything else seemingly melting away. He stared back at you just as intensely, seemingly as lost in your eyes as you were his.

“Y/N! Your marshmallow is on fire!” El shrieked.

You snapped out of your daze, head whipping to see that, yes, your marshmallow indeed was on fire. You pulled it back with a curse, blowing the flame out, revealing a charred marshmallow.

“Anyone want a well done s’more?” you teased, wincing at the heat as you pulled off the ruined attempt, tossing it into the fire.

You bent, getting another one to try at your second attempt.

“You gotta keep it rotating,” Steve told you.

This time he spoke in his normal voice, so it wasn’t unusual to feel a few of the others’ gazes on you.

“Like this. Here, you want, Dustin?” Steve asked, offering up his own prepared one so he could show you.

“Uh, hell yes,” Dustin said, plucking it off, popping it into his mouth, nodding approvingly.

“Okay, that was perfectly done, dude,” he said, giving Steve a thumbs up.

“See? I know what I’m doing,” he chuckled, coming to stand behind you, “It’s all in the wrist.”

His hands covered yours on top of the metal, showing you how to twist it, making sure each side was toasted to perfection.

You felt the stares of the others, but chose to ignore them.

“And there you go,” Steve said, stepping back as you pulled your second marshmallow away from the flames and blew on it.

“Okay, that is good,” you said, licking your sticky fingers, “I’m going to need at least five more of those.”

You went to grab a chocolate bar and graham crackers from the table for you and Steve when you overheard Max, Lucas and Dustin who were across the way, grabbing sodas.

“What’s up with Steve and Y/N today?” Lucas asked, “They’ve practically been eye fucking all evening, ow! What? It’s true!”

You stifled a laugh, knowing Max, ever the girl meant to keep Lucas straight as an arrow, had most likely just hit her boyfriend for that comment.

“Yeah, I saw one of those weird moments earlier. It was awkward, they were just standing there gawking at each other,” Dustin said.

“And they say us kids are clueless about things,” Max sighed, “I wish they’d just get together already, we all know they like each other.”

•

The night had darkened and now only the light of the fire cast a glow over the group of people around it.

Some of the others had started telling ghost stories, but you were only half listening as you bit into your second s’more.

“These taste so much better around a campfire, don’t they?” you mumbled unintelligibly, mouth still full.

Steve chuckled.

“You got some chocolate on your mouth,” he said.

He didn’t even wait for you to attempt to get it, he just reached over, thumb swiping it from the corner of your mouth. The dark hid his intimate gesture, it going unwitnessed by your group of friends. Oh, how you wished you could kiss him then and there.

But then he turned his attention back to the story being told and you did the same, taking another bite of your s’more, your mind filled with Steve.

•

The night wound down when the fire had grown lower, bellies were full and yawns were being passed around.

“Bedtime kiddos,” Robin joked, half out of it herself.

Good nights were exchanged as the younger six headed to the tents and sleeping bags were pulled out by the rest of you. The night was beautiful. The stars were shining brightly, the temperature just a hair from being too cool and the sounds of crickets chirping could be heard in the woods, the quiet shushing of the lake a peaceful sound to round it all out.

Eddie helped Jonathan toss more wood into the fire, to keep it going for as long as possible as the rest of you slept out under the stars. While Robin and Nancy set up their sleeping bags, you unrolled yours. Somehow, the only one you owned was big enough to fit two, though you weren’t entirely sure how you’d come to own it.

Steve laid his out next to yours and you slid into your own, eager to gaze up at the stars. You understood why many people were fascinated by them because they truly were brilliant tonight.

The soft shuffles of everyone else soon quieted after a few murmured exchanges of goodnight. You were all spread pretty far apart, Eddie a good ten feet from you and Steve to your left, Robin already fast asleep at about the same distance away to your right. Nancy and Jonathan shared a sleeping bag all the way across the campfire from you two.

“Steve,” you whispered, turning your head towards him.

“Hmm?” he responded.

“Will you cuddle me?” you asked, playfully pouting, “My sleeping bag is big enough for both of us.”

He chuckled, sitting up, already moving to your side.

“Now how can I say no to that?”

You opened the top, letting him slide in before he wrapped his arms around you, pulling you towards him as far as he could while you still faced him.

“Better?” he whispered.

“Much,” you confirmed.

“I’ve been wanting to do this all day, myself,” he said, “I’m sorry we haven’t had much time to ourselves.”

“It’s okay. Today’s been fun,” you assured, “Although I wish we could have some alone time too.”

You chuckled softly, glancing over at the closed tents, “Just too many people around.”

“I know.”

He kissed you gently, briefly, just a small reassurance.

“Believe me, the things I would do to you if we could be alone right now,” Steve said.

Your fingers traced over his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt.

“Why don’t you tell me about those things?”

He looked wary at first.

“You sure? With the others around?”

“They’re asleep,” you whispered, “Why not?”

“Well,” he said, as if trying to think where he should start, “I’d love to kiss you without any limitations.”

“How so?” you asked.

“At first, I want to kiss you soft. Delicate, sweet. But of course, I can’t just tease you like that. I also want to kiss you passionately. Hot and heavy. Lips gliding over each other’s, my tongue twirling and dancing with your own. I might even throw in a little bottom lip tugging in there, if you ask nicely.”

“And what about your hands?”

“They’ve got a lot to explore, sweetheart. I want to caress your face, hold you by the back of the neck, pull you closer by your waist, squeeze your sides. I want to be able to run my hands over your bare skin, so I’d trace them up your shirt, over your stomach. But of course, your shirt has to come off. Your pants too. Fuck, all your clothes at this rate.”

He exhaled deeply, biting his bottom lip.

“The day I get to see you naked will be an amazing one.”

His reverent whisper made your body heat, more than just in the face.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know it’s beautiful. Just like you. And also, I’m going to take my sweet time with it. Memorizing every inch. Kissing every place I possibly can. These though,” he motioned to your chest, “I already know I will love.”

“We all know you love boobs, Steve,” you laughed, a bit breathlessly.

“Yes, but yours are absolutely perfect, I know it. And I am going to enjoy the ever living fuck out of them when I get the chance,” he rasped.

“I want to be able to hold them, massage them, grip them tightly. Kiss them, lick them and leave love bites all over them so people know they’re mine. I want to be able to pinch and tweak your nipples and suck on them until I make you moan. I bet you make the most beautiful sounds.”

Your body was catching up to the buzzing in your head at his words, you could feel the start of arousal between your thighs, but you weren’t going to stop him now.

“I’d kiss my way down your stomach, stopping here,” his hand trailed down your stomach, his touch burning its way through the fabric of your shirt to stop just at your abdomen.

“Spread your thighs because I want to taste you,” he whispered, eyes never leaving your face, “I’d kiss your thighs, making you squirm and beg for me to put my mouth where you want it the most. Right on your pussy. There, I’d tease you because I want you to whine and beg me for my touch. I’d lick you gently, making you so impatient. You’re always impatient, I bet you’d be worse then. You’d go wild when my tongue circles your clit, flicking against it, enough to make you jolt. But what’s truly my specialty is a combination of my fingers and my mouth. I’d slide one finger into you and you’d be so wet. God, you’d be so wet for me, Y/N.”

You were positive you already were now, a dull throbbing having started within you, at some point during his latest revelation. You squeezed your thighs together although it did little to help.

“I already am,” you whispered, although you hadn’t intended on letting that fact slip.

He groaned lowly, his hand holding you close against your back, sliding lower towards your ass.

“Where was I?” he swallowed hard, “Oh yeah, driving you crazy with both my fingers and mouth. I wouldn’t stop with just one finger, no, you’d be so good for me, I’d give you another. I’d curl them inside of you making you moan and arch into me because I’m working you so good, I haven’t even gotten to my mouth yet, baby. I’m sucking on your clit, tongue flicking against it and you’re pulling on my hair making me even harder than I already am. I wouldn’t want anyone else’s hands in my hair but yours, baby. You can mess it up any day.”

You can’t seem to look away from him, captivated by what you were wish was actions right now, not words.

“Your moans would be music to my ears. I’m sure you’re the only one who’d be able to make them sound so sweet and so dirty at the same time. I can’t wait to make you moan my name. I promise you right here and now, I’ll do it. When you cum, it’s the best sight as you shake and tremble for me, squeezing around my fingers so tightly it makes me even more desperate to bury myself in your sweet pussy.”

“Steve,” you groaned softly.

“Ah, getting turned on are we, sweetheart?” he smirked, other hand moving from the side of your neck, up to your cheek to cup it.

“Getting? No. That happened at least ten minutes ago.”

He chuckled deeply, gaze heavy on yours. You weren’t sure if he was as entirely turned on as you, but he was sure getting into the part.

“Feel what you’ve done to me,” he whispered hotly.

The hand on your back pulled you closer to him, pressing you against him. You felt his arousal against your thigh, so dangerously close to where you wish he could be in the moment. That definitely dissolved any doubt you’d had about him not being as turned on as you.

“Fuck,” you breathed, softly.

“If we weren’t in the middle of the forest with only tents nearby, I’d have my way with you right now,” he said lowly, “But I don’t want our first time together to be in a fucking tent. Or on a camping trip. I want it to be nicer than that.”

“What do you want to do?” you asked, your breath fanning over his.

Steve gave you a short, quiet laugh in response.

“What don’t I want to do is probably the better question.”

“Tell me,” you said, “Please.”

“Let’s not jump into it, baby. I gotta get it in first,” he smirked, “But when I do, holy shit, it’s the best feeling ever. I bet you’re all warm and tight and so, so wet. All for me. I’ll know that everyone else can’t hold a candle to you because you fit me like a glove, squeezing me so tightly. All I’ll ever want is just to be wrapped by your walls making you feel so good.”

“You’ve got some high expectations, Harrington,” you said, licking your lips as they suddenly became extremely dry from your deep breath.

“I know it because I know it won’t be just sex with you, Y/N. We already know we’re in love with one another, so it’s going to be incredible to finally be connected to you so intimately. That’s not something I shared with just anyone. In fact, I’ve not shared that with anyone because without knowing it, I was waiting for you.”

The words, the sentiment was so sweet, even in the midst of the filthiest dirty talk you’d ever heard him voice. But, it made your eyes water and you blinked them back quickly. There would be another time for emotions.

“I appreciate that, Steve and as sweet and wonderful the sentiment is, you’re not getting by with not finishing your wishes.”

“Darn, you caught me,” he teased.

“What would you do next?” you asked, eagerly awaiting what else he had in store for you in this fantasy.

“Well when I’m already inside you, I can have you anyway I please. Missionary while I hold your hand tightly, fingers laced through mine. Riding me, so I can see those amazing boobs of yours bouncing in my face. On your hands and knees where I can hit hard and deep within you. Bent over a table, while you clutch the sides. Whichever way, the one thing they’d all have in common is you falling apart on my cock.”

His voice has become raspier, a deep groan to the edges of certain words. His finger traced gently over your cheek, such an opposite action in comparison to his words.

“You have no idea how much I want that,” you said.

“Oh, I think I do. Remember?”

His hips press against yours and you accidentally let out a quiet moan.

“Shh, can’t wake the others,” he teased.

“I haven’t even gotten to tell you what I want to do to you,” you responded, looking up at him through your lashes.

“What do you want to do? Tell me,” he uttered, moving a piece of hair behind your ear, “Trust me, I want to hear all about it.”

“Well, if we’re having an honest hour, your chest hair drives me wild.”

You had to hold in a grimace because your first sentence into this was probably the weirdest thing you could’ve said.

“Oh really? How much?” he was smirking.

“I about go feral. Like “want to rip off my own clothes and just present myself to you” kind of feral.”

“What would you do if I said I’d want you to drag your dripping wet pussy over it? Make yourself feel good, hmm?”

“I’d be all for it before the words were out of your mouth, but this is about you, not me.”

“Do go on,” he prodded, finger tracing your lips, inhaling deeply when you took it gently between your teeth before releasing it and kissing it.

“I wanna make you feel good, too,” you said in your hushed tone, “I wanna hear you moan, too. I want you to moan as much as possible because that shit gets me going.”

“Duly noted,” he responded.

“I’d fall to my knees, pulling your impressive cock out. Honestly, are we sure it’s going to fit?”

His chest shook with silent laughter.

You just realized you had no idea where the two shy people from earlier went, this exercise bringing out the shamelessness and boldness in both of you.

“I’m sure it’ll fit. Now, please, don’t let me interrupt you.”

You decided to waste no time getting to the point.

“I want to wrap my lips around your cock and make you moan without abandon.”

“Jesus, fuck,” he breathed.

“I’d run my tongue around the head, sucking on it before taking you in my mouth and sucking on it like it’s my favorite summer popsicle.”

You wondered briefly if you’d looked this dazed when he was talking to you earlier. His lips had parted, eyes lidded and face looking flushed from what you could tell by the light of the fire.

“Of course my hands can’t be left out. I’d grip and squeeze you, pumping what I can’t fit in my notify, the other fondling your balls because I’m sure that would drive you nearly insane. I’d look up at you, seeing you so blissed out, hands running through your hair, moans falling from your beautiful lips and want nothing more than you to cum hard in my mouth. When you do, I would suck you dry, not wasting a single drop. Then I could take my time kissing you anywhere and everywhere on your body, leaving as few or as many hickies as I wanted, to mark you up as well. Maybe then grind against your thigh because you make me so horny. Then I’d let you take me anyway you’d want and bend me like a fucking pretzel. How does that sound?”

It took him a moment to actually respond and he had to take a deep breath, shifting enough to run a hand through his hair before he spoke.

“I really wish we weren’t camping right now,” he chuckled, voice gravelly.

“You and me both.”

“Well, I definitely don’t need the fire to warm me up now,” he teased, “How about you?”

You groaned, realizing just how badly your little exercise had backfired on you.

This camping trip would be the death of you.

[kinnards]

I'm having so many feelings about eddie&linda's conversation regarding god tonight and I can't really put it in words but there's something so familiar about casually talking about god as a queer person raised in faith but who has abandoned/felt abandoned by it because of who they fundamentally are and their trauma and how falling back into things like I prayed a lot and well I hope He gives me a shout soon and a saint's medal as ways to comfort himself during difficult times are just so deeply catholic of him even if he's not all that religious now, even when he doubts, even when he's still struggling and when he doesn't understand why he's still here when the others aren't. having Eddie be so casually not-religious day-to-day but deep down having it ingrained in the core of his being, he's bringing it out when he doesn't have the answers. Eddie doesn't believe in the universe, doesn't believe in luck, but maybe- maybe a small part of him still believes in Him and he's been waiting for this- for some sort of sign, that he hasn't been abandoned, that he's still worth it and that maybe there's a fucking divine reason and that he can be saved, after all.

the universe has been screaming at him, but God has spoken, and now he will listen.

[userlando]

I dunno if you do requests, but if you did a possessive/jealous Tom Hardy (or Eddie, or Alfie.... I dunno, they all give off the vibe) I would I've you like my soul or something......,........

oh god, inspiration strikes again..

Alfie wasn’t a soft man, both physically and mentally. He didn���t grow up in the warmest household and his mother, bless her heart, did everything to raise her boys to be great men when their father failed in that department.

Not to say that she’d failed, considering where Alfie had ended up, but it provided him with enough resources and money to take care of her the way she’d struggled to put food on the table and provide for him and his siblings during his childhood.

Alfie wasn’t soft when he’d done unspeakable things during the war, and he certainly wasn’t soft when he’d taken his place as the king of London. His hard exterior and the amount of blood on his hands was enough for people to fear him. And that’s all he would ever ask for. Because fear was respect, and Alfie would pry out anyone’s teeth with pliers if anyone dared to show him anything else.

Alfie wasn’t soft, but that’s the word he’d describe himself feeling when he heard you laugh for the first time. It had been five years but he remembered it so vividly that it still - to this day - made his hands shake in a way he’d never admit out loud. God forbid someone would hear him spew soppy shit that only you found endearing and romantic.

It was a rainy afternoon and Alfie was craving an evening at the pub after a long day at the distillery. A drink was all he’d come for, but then he’d heard you laugh and his ears had immediately perked at the sound.

It wasn’t difficult for him to locate where that sound came from. Because as he suspected, your face was just as radiating as your laugh and it sounded silly, but he knew from the moment he laid eyes on you, that he had to have you.

You were tough at first, your boundaries and lack of interest unlike any other woman’s he’d usually pick up. The way you seemed so unattainable only seemed to pull unwanted male attention, but the more he tried to pursue you, the more word got around. You were his woman, and only his. It infuriated you at first because you were no one else’s but yours, though Alfie knew you’d secretly loved it. Even though you refused to admit it even years later when the topic arose in conversation.

So, Alfie wasn’t soft. But he was soft for you, and he was soft for your laugh. Which was why his ears - much like that day at the pub - perked when he heard your giggle echo in the distillery. A frown immediately cast over his face as he placed his pen down on the surface of his desk.

He glanced around in confusion at first, wondering who the fuck you were speaking to that made you giggle like that. And his stomach churned when he thought of all the greasy men who were working under the roof of his distillery, who’d been instructed to not speak to you if not absolutely necessary. Everybody knew this. No one was foolish enough to risk losing their ball sack to a rusty shank.

Or so, that’s what Alfie thought.

The chair squeaked in protest as he rose from it, rough hands flat on the table to heave himself up as he grunted in annoyance. Annoyance because someone was clearly not doing their job, and annoyance because you knew better than to prance around at the distillery when there was work to be done. And chances are, you looked absolutely gorgeous doing it.

Alfie’s suspicions were correct, he realised, as he walked down the creaky stairs to the base floor. He found you a few yards away, legs that he loved so much clad in stockings he knew he’d be ripping off later. You had the same green dress on he’d seen you dress in before he left for work that morning.

He would’ve stood there and appreciated the way your dress flared where your back met your bottom, or the way you’d prettily pinned your hair back just far enough to reveal your neck. The very same neck he’d buried his face into the night before and just this morning.

Alfie couldn’t appreciate it though, mostly because of the two dimwits standing in front of you, greased up faces smiling as they spoke to you. As if Alfie paid them to slack off. Fucking idiots.

As Alfie moved closer, he could hear your soft voice ask ‘How’s Claire doing? What a strong woman she is for birthing your lovely twins!’ It admittedly made Alfie soften for a second, because of course you’d take interest in everyone’s life and show genuine concern. That was the major difference between you two. Where Alfie lacked, you made up for.

“Right, last time I checked, I paid you fucking idiots to do your jobs,” Alfie startled the two men as he approached, voice booming as usual. “So, tell me what you’re bloody standing around here for.”

You turned around with ease, having been with him long enough to not bat an eyelash at his vulgar words and flaring anger. His face was scrunched up in an expression that would make any sensible man and woman in London cower in fear, and you placed a hand on his meaty arm in a poor effort to calm him down. And to silently tell him to shut up and behave.

“Alfie.” You greeted him like he wasn’t shooting daggers at the two men who now looked like they wanted nothing more than to bolt. You couldn’t blame them. “Hi sweetheart. I was just talking to Christopher and William here about their families. Did you know Will had twins?”

Alfie only managed a grunt because why did you know their names? And Will?

He didn’t know if he wanted to drag the bastard into his office by his cock and beat his face into three different shades or to toss them out on their sorry arses. He knew the first option would send him into the doghouse for God knows how long, and the other option would cause more problems between the two of you than he dared to think about.

“Two girls.” The one he assumed was named William said, albeit a little shakily. The man next to him elbowed him and they both went quiet.

“Right, I must’ve missed the part where I fucking asked.” Alfie was livid, and there were so many factors playing into that reason.

These animals who worked under him knew to never lay their eyes on you, nevertheless talk to you. And he wanted to be angry at how good you looked, at the audacity to walk into the distillery when he knew he disliked you hanging around here during office hours.

Mostly, he wanted to spank your stubborn arse black and blue.

“Alfie, why don’t we go to your office, hm?” You asked softly, feeling the way he was shaking as you squeezed his bicep gently.

He knew what it was though. Your way of telling him to simmer down and behave.

You didn’t wait for him to answer, turning on your pretty polished heels to walk around and past him toward his office. He didn’t miss the way your legs wobbled, and he knew you were well aware of what you were to expect once the fragile door of the office closed behind the two of you. Alfie knew that the wobble of your legs derived from excitement and not from fear. You could scowl and reprimand him all you wanted, but you both knew that you loved his possessiveness at the end of the day.

He watched you walk away, his anger simmering down just a wee bit before he turned his head to the two men standing in front of him. He sucked his teeth, smacked his lips and contemplated beating them with his cane before thinking twice of it.

“What the fuck are you two still doing ‘ere?” His roar was enough to have them scatter like mice.

Alfie huffed and turned around, following in your footsteps to his office where you were waiting.

“How many times have I told you, right, to not fuckin’ walk in here when I’m working, woman?” He walked in and closed the door behind him.

He struggled to contain his anger when he saw you sitting on his desk, legs crossed over each other and his eyes immediately went to the sliver of skin where the hem of your dress had ridden up on your thigh. Alfie’s first instinct was to march up and grab the delicate skin until you squirmed, but he stopped himself.

He gripped his cane tighter in his right hand and rubbed his forehead with the other one. “You’re fuckin’ impossible.”

You frowned. “I can’t help it if you’re possessive, Alf. That’s your problem, not mine.”

“You know how these men are.” He gritted out, gesturing behind him to the distillery. “You cannot be this dim.”

“Alfie Solomons, I know you didn’t just call me dim.” You said and Alfie paused at the tone of your voice.

You sounded annoyed but he could detect the hurt in your voice and it was enough for him to let out a grumbling sigh, stepping up to the desk where you sat. He silently admired the frown lines on your pretty face and prayed that he hadn’t shoved his foot in his mouth.

Alfie got his answer when you parted your legs enough for him to step between them, and he struggled to breathe properly when you circled them around his behind to pull him closer.

“You’re my girl, yeah?” He muttered, bringing a hand up to cradle your cheek.

“Woman.” You protested softly, welcoming the touch as his silent apology.

You watched as his eyes appraised you and held back from preening when he grunted in appreciation and what you knew were hunger as his eyes trailed your body before landing on your face.

“And what a fucking woman you are.” He said lowly, using his hand on your cheek to pull you in for a kiss.

The clatter of the cane falling to the floor didn’t deter you as he let go of it in order to grab you by the waist, pulling you in closer as he deepened the kiss. You moaned into his mouth, not caring if anyone heard you. Alfie pinched the top of your arse in retaliation and you squealed.

“Alfie!” You sounded scandalised but the enormous smile on your lipstick smeared lips said otherwise.

Alfie admired his artwork with a smug smile, knowing that his mouth probably looked a mess too.

“Don’t Alfie me, woman.” He pressed an open mouthed kiss to your lips that tasted a lot like a promise. “This is just a preview of what I’ll be doing to you tonight.”

* * * * *

Welp, that turned sexual. But hello! Hi! Surprise, here’s me answering to an ask five hundred years later. I was in a writing mood so.. hope you enjoy x

[bisexualbuckleyy]

the 911 fandom and female love interests: a controversial hot take

here is my hot take of the day that will probably piss off a lot of people but it’s just my opinion on how the fandom has reacted to female love interests for buck and eddie, specifically ana, and how members of the fandom have been reacting to those reactions.

i’ve seen a lot of posts saying stuff like “you only dislike ana because she’s coming in between buddie” and i’m here to say: so what?

now, i would like to preface this by saying i don’t dislike ana as a character and have a massive crush on gabrielle walsh, but to be completely honest i don’t have much of an opinion on ana except for that i think she’s pretty and i don’t like her and eddie together.

do you want to know why? because she does not have a personality outside of her relationship with eddie and her connection to christopher. there is literally not enough information about her as a character to even develop a strong opinion on her. the only substance we have that we can develop a strong opinion on is how she impacts the main characters.

here is a list of the things we know about ana:

she was christopher’s english teacher

she’s latina

she has a family member named edmundo

she told eddie that christopher has limitations and that there are things he won’t be able to do

she got her doctorate and is now a vice principal

she’s a good cook

she’s dating eddie

that is the extent of what we know about ana flores. is any of that worthy of hating her? no. but is any of it worthy of being really emotionally invested in her? also no.

now here is a list of things that have happened with other characters as a result of ana flores:

christopher fell off the skateboard (not directly her fault but it was made very clear that eddie blamed her and yelled at her about it)

christopher got mad at eddie (on two separate occasions)

eddie didn’t notice his own son sneaking out of the house

eddie acted like a completely different character for an entire episode

don’t get me wrong, i think she’s had some good impacts too, but those are the things that the story has highlighted. not to mention the fact that eddie now has a canon significant other and it is less likely that buddie will become canon any time soon.

now, are any of those things worthy of hating her? no, mostly because the majority of those things were not her fault, but the way that the storylines were written, they were directly connected to her influence and presence in the story as either christopher’s teacher or eddie’s girlfriend.

the fact of the matter is that ana has gotten zero development as a character and currently has very little substance outside of being eddie’s girlfriend. and this is not a new thing that the writers have done. see: ali.

ali is introduced not as a love interest but as an emergency victim. we see her interact with buck and eddie for two episodes, don’t see her for six episodes, then see her in the last episode of the season only for her and buck to break up. her sole purpose as a character was to be buck’s girlfriend for half a season and then break up with him.

here are the things we know about ali:

she designs hotels (i think? something like that)

her boss sexually harassed her

she was trapped in a high rise during an earthquake with buck and eddie

she dated buck for an unknown amount of time

she travels a lot for work

she helped buck find an apartment

she broke up with buck after his leg got crushed by the ladder truck

none of those things really merit any kind of a strong opinion on her. i don’t even think she was mentioned for the majority of season 2B unless it was plot relevant that buck had a girlfriend.

love interests that are not main characters are not well developed characters because they don’t need to be. they’re not people, they’re plot devices for main characters to develop or for storylines to progress in a certain way.

look at the actual well developed romances on the show: bathena, madney, henren, even buck and abby although it was just one season. all of these relationships are between two main characters or a main character and a prominent supporting character. henren slightly less so, but they’re established as a couple at the beginning of the show and get their fair share of storylines, so they still have development.

it’s very difficult to be invested in a relationship between a complex well developed character and a fairly one dimensional undeveloped or under developed character, and it’s also difficult to be invested in a character that has a very one dimensional personality.

ana has basically no flaws outside of the skateboarding incident, so what else would people be disliking her for if not for that she’s coming in between buddie? and if people are disliking her for coming in between buddie, then that’s completely valid. i’m very emotionally invested in buddie and really want them to become a couple, so i’m kind of annoyed that they’re bringing in a female character who has no personality except ‘love interest’ and making her be eddie’s girlfriend.

now, i’m not saying that means it’s totally okay to say “ana is a horrible person and i hate her because she’s coming in between my ship” because all evidence points to her not being a horrible person and it’s definitely not okay to say that. but it is completely valid to say “i really don’t like this character being on the show because they’re not developed and are coming between a ship that i’m very passionate about” and that doesn’t make you sexist or racist or whatever else people are saying, as long as that’s genuinely why you don’t like her.

these are fictional characters, not real people, and it’s valid to not like a fictional character because they’re preventing a storyline from happening that you really want to happen.

most importantly: THIS DOES NOT GIVE YOU ANY RIGHT TO ATTACK GABRIELLE WALSH. she is not a writer on the show, she did not write ana this way, she did not choose to have ana be eddie’s girlfriend, she is not the reason why buddie is not together. she is an actress who was hired to play a role and she is doing an amazing job with what she has been given. if you’re going to dislike any real people, dislike the writers because they’re the ones who are writing the story this way.

to sum up a ridiculously long post: if you love ana flores, great! if you hope her and eddie are endgame and have a very long and happy relationship, then you do you. if you’re kinda eh on ana and don’t feel strongly either way, that’s totally fine! if you really don’t like ana, that’s also totally fine! if you like ana as a character and think she has potential but you don’t like her and eddie together, awesome! if you’re secretly praying for lena to come back and for her and ana to be girlfriends (like me), then please come talk to me because i would be so here for that.

you are entitled to your own opinion, but that does not give you the right to insult other people or call them names for their opinions or to harass the actress who is just doing her job. respect other people’s feelings and decisions and remember that these are fictional characters whose sole purpose is to create an interesting and entertaining story, and if you dislike a character because you feel like they’re getting in the way of an interesting and entertaining story, you’re 100% entitled to that.

so please, stop attacking other people for their opinions and for the love of god, do not attack the actors. thank you for coming to my ted talk feel free to send me pictures of gabrielle walsh or scream at me about 911 whenever you want!

[quirrrky]

For the THIRD DATE OF CHRISTMAS a daydream came to me...

A BEACH DATE w/ GAARA as a warm gift for the kind and outgoing @nightdragonlogz​. Gaze the stars with the soft hymn of the sea. Enjoy your dream holidate!

FEATURED DATE SONG: LOVE IS A STAR 🎵 by EDDY KIM

With Gaara beside you, you were strolling on the shore after you just both as the cold and salty breeze of the night filled you. With all honesty, you can’t believe that you’ll be spending your holidays at the beach. It was just very unlikely since everyone was wishing for snow and yet here you were walking in the sand. You can’t reject this offer though. Gaara invited you and you know he had something prepared each and everytime he’d initiate stuff with you.

You’ve been friends for so long and you’ve been pining for him ever since then. However, there’s a part of you that wasn’t hoping anymore and would accept it if he couldn’t reciprocate your feelings.

You giggled to yourself just thinking how many books could he have read just so he can deal with everything today properly. Anyways, it was so much fun. You swam together and you convinced him to binge on different flavors of ice cream. There were those awkward moments but they were rather very adorable because it’s him and he’s really trying his best.

Suddenly, you both stopped walking and he turned to you.

“Wait a sec…” He told you and you smiled in approval. It didn’t take him long before he returned—now having towels in his hands. He laid down the towels and sat on of them. Motioning to you, he said, “Here. I guess it’ll be more comfortable this way. Well, that’s based on…Whatever never mind. Just come here…”

You couldn’t help but chuckle by how cute he was.

Looking up above, you saw the glistening stars. You’ve never seen them this plenty. They’re of different shapes and sizes, and they shone in different ways. Not only that, but their reflection was sparkling over the sea sprinkling the darkness with its light.

“Beautiful…” You heard Gaara murmured and at that very instant, your heart jumped a little, but it’s difficult to assume.

“Yeah, the-the s-stars are very beautiful aren’t they?” You replied to him cheerfully but he just looked blankly at you.

“Well, yes. They’re beautiful but actually…” He was cut mid-sentence when you tapped his shoulder to look behind him.

“Gaara look! A shooting star! Make a wish! Make a wish!” You told him and firmly closed your eyes letting the star know that maybe just maybe he can finally return your feelings.

“Uh…Y/N,” Gaara called out on you but you continued on praying to the star. “Y/N…”

You opened your eyes and gave him a questioning look.

“That wasn’t a shooting star. I think it’s the search light from the safe house.”

Oh. You immediately turned face away from him all reddened due to embarrassment. How can this happen!

“But there’s a lot of stars up there, you can ask each one of them.” Gaara informed you as a matter of-factly but in his tone you surely heard a subtle excitement and joy. “That’s why I brought you here. It’s always snow during Christmas in other places and it’s hard to look up above without your eyes getting hit by snow flakes. The sky would probably all covered with fog. Here, you can see them bright and clear.”

A blush crept across your cheeks and you couldn’t get rid of it.

“Y/N…” He called your name, but this time, it sounded different. It was more mellow and definite. “Can I wish upon you?”

Your eyes widened in disbelief? Was he…Was he comparing you to a star? Why was he wishing upon you? What’s he gonna ask?

“W-What do you mean?” You couldn’t help but feel excited and embarrassed at the same time.

“I’d like to wish for you to return my feelings.”

Was it really just a search light back then or was it truly a shooting star? Why was your wish coming true? “W-What feelings? I-I mean what kind of feelings are you talking about?”

“Oh, I like you. Haven’t I made it obvious?” Gaara announced calmly and you just stared at him in complete and utter shock. Until, he picked up and the pace and figured everything out. “Oh…I guess my attempts to be obvious isn’t successful.”

Sighing deeply, he looked a bit dejected perhaps he was thinking of other ways to deal with this. You knew that he didn’t want to disappoint you in any way and just how can you ‘no’ to that!

With a big dry gulp, you mustered your courage and pulled the side of his shirt to get his attention. “Gaara, I think I can give you an answere to your wish now.”

“No.” He rejected.

“Why no?” You asked almost in a panic. Like, that was your every courage on the line there. This was your chance with him before somthing came up and things change!

“I don’t want you to reject me.  I guess I should find a better way to-“

You cut him and blurted out, “Yes! I’ll return your feelings…”

Your face was all red and you kept your eyes tightly pinched close. All you could hear was your crazily beating heart until you felt his lips touched yours an your mind went blank. Did he just-

You opened your eyes and confirmed that he did just give you the chastest kiss you’ve ever experienced.

“I guess that’s the part where I have to do that.”

“Yeah,” you just nodded your head slightly while looking so bashful all along.

In silence, you just sat there so stiff still couldn’t digest everything that’s happening now, when you felt his arm snaked around you pulling you close so that your head was resting on his shoulder. You looked up at him and a subtle smile appeared on his face—seeing you who’s as magical as a shooting star to him was the best in the world so far and you both wanted it to last.

“Is it okay like this?” Gaara asked and you squeezed your face onto his arm to hide your face. You thought he wouldn’t notice your grin, but he did.

A/N: Waaaah!!! I know you said rooftop @nightdragonlogz​, but I can’t pass up on this chance. I think stars and beach are very befitting! I wish you enjoy this one and have a merry christmasss!!!

EVENT NAVIGATION: #12 DATES ✼ 3rd DATE [12 DATES OF CHRISTMAS EVENT]

REBLOGS ARE DEEPLY APPRECIATED ♡ Please help me reach other viewers as tumblr tags are unfortunately not working on me. Thank you so so much!

☾ COLLECTIONS: Gaara ✧ Naruto (Series)☾  ✧ DAYDREAM MUSEUM ✧

[intoanothermind]

Beauty Queen - Chapter 8

B E A U T Y   Q U E E N

Synopsis: You are the Ice Princess of Narnia during the Long Winter. Your sister Jadis, the White Witch, hates that you’re always helping Narnians escape prision. She decides to hunt you down and you have to run away from the palace. What happens when you find the four humans lost in Narnia?

- Edmund Pevensie x reader

Masterlist

<Chapter 7 | Chapter 9>

—-

C H A P T E R   E I G H T

When everyone was asleep, Y/N got up slowly and silently. She left the makeshift camp just long enough not to wake any of them. She moved away a little among the trees and hid behind a bush. She spread her white dress around her, camouflaging it from the snow on the floor, and sighed. She had intended to do so since she handed the other part of the glass over to Edmund, but she wouldn’t know how to react to the possible questions he would ask. To say that she was Jadis' sister, to say that she was the Snow Witch. It was one thing to open the game with others, quite another to Edmund. And she didn’t even know why.

Y/N took her own piece of glass from the white fabric, and watched it closely. The surface was cold, blue and irregular like ice, allowing you to use spells. Both pieces were taken from the ice mirror she had in her palace room. She approached the glass to her lips and whispered the spell to her reflection. Then came the well-known image of the ice castle dungeons. In one of the cells was Edmund, with tousled hair and a scratched face. He was huddled in the corner, with a chain around his ankle. Y/N felt her heart tightening, but did everything to shake this feeling. At least for now. She then whispered a communication spell and the image became dark. With the spell activated, she saw only the literal reflection of the mirror - at the time, it was Edmund sweatshirt pocket.

“Edmund! Edmund!” She called.

Edmund shifted. He clearly heard a voice close to him. Did he really hear Y/N's voice or was that dungeon driving him insane? Perhaps neither option nor another, perhaps only longing and regret were creating illusions in your mind. But then he heard your name a second time. He frowned, suspicious. Until he finally realized where the sound of that melodious voice came from. From your pocket.

“Finally!” cried Y/N seeing the boy's face appearing in the reflection.

“Y/N? What is that?” asked Edmund, clutching the piece of glass where he saw Y/N reflex in obscurity that of a forest. Was this all a dream?

“A reflex and communication spell.” and she said hastily. “The piece of glass I gave you comes from the same one I have. They were taken from my ice mirror in my room in the palace.”

“Spell? Reflection? Palace? Y/N, what's going on?” He asked, scared. What was that after all? Who was that mysterious girl really?

“I don't have time to explain now, Eddie.” she told him, trying to escape the questions. Y/N didn't want to tell him who she was. She knew she would have to do it at some point, she just tried to put it off as long as she could. “Just hold on tight that we're going after Aslam.”

“Can Aslam really help with all this?” Edmund asked wistfully.

Y/N nodded firmly. “Aslam is our hope. I may not be a person worthy of being faithful to him, but I will do everything for the Narnian people. And I will fetch you from the hands of that poisonous snake that insists on hunting me!”

Y/N had spoken so firmly and imperative that Edmund unconsciously compared her with a queen - even if he didn’t know more than your name. She was firm, confident and majestic. But then he finally heard her words. She had spoken with such hatred and bitterness that he could almost be certain that it was much more personal.

“Do you know her?” he asked, and was sure when she looked away.

“That is not the case.” Y/N said firmly, praying that she hadn’t made it very clear in her eyes. “You must try to eat and stay strong. And please try not to say too much to her. Give only informations that will keep you alive, but no more than the necessary. As soon as she decides that you are disposable, you will have no chance.”

“How do you know all this?” Edmund asked, raising an eyebrow. He knew there was so much more to that girl than she let out .

“Just trust me, Eddie, please.” Y/N said almost pleading and smiled when he nodded. “Now try to eat something to save your energy.”

Edmund wanted to know why she was so concerned about his health. She looked almost desperate, and he noticed that it was atypical behaviour. He looked around his frozen cell, and found a tray. He took the bread from the tray and took a bite. He crumbled over his mouth, but it was better than nothing. He was very hungry. He choked on the bread and started or coughed.

Y/N started or really despaired when she saw it just by reflection. She wishes she could be there to help you, but if she went, she would be caught, for sure.

“See if you water still in the isn’t frozen!” she said, trying to remain calm.

He took the mug from the tray and saw that the liquid there was frozen. There was nothing to quench the thirst.

“If...” he heard a noise beside him. It came from the cell next to his. He looked and came across a tired and injured faun. “If you won't eat more...”

Edmund then took the bread he had left aside and dragged himself to the hole that was between the cells.

“I would get up, but...” said the faun, also crawling through the cell to get closer. “My legs...”

The man came closer and took the bread.

“Mr... Tumnus?” asked Edmund.

“What's left of him.” replied the faun, savouring the bread as far as possible.

“TUMNUS!” exclaimed Y/N, to see a friendly face.

The faun looked around for the sudden voice, and Edmund held out the glass of ice. And he was astonished to see that the faun was not even surprised by all that... Bizarrity.

“Oh, Y/N!” exclaim or the faun, with a tired expression becoming a little more cheerful and. “Always with the impressive antics!”

“I needed a way to communicate with Edmund and find out what my... What Jadis intends!” Y/N corrected herself quickly when she realized that she had almost slipped her relationship with the Witch in front of Edmund. She just prayed that he hadn't noticed. “Ah, I still haven’t forgotten you locking me in with that chair!”

“It seems that not even the ice was able to release that.” said the faun. But Edmund just got more confused. “How you get out of there?”

Y/N smiled sarcastically . “It was your cellmate, he was kind enough to get me out of there with his siblings.”

“Siblings?” asked Tumnus, a little confused, returning the glass to Edmund. The faun analysed him well and saw some physical similarities with someone he knew. “Your sister is Lucy Pevensie.” he stated.

“My name is Edmund.”

“Yes... You have the same nose.”

“Edmund...” Y/N was about to say when a noise was heard on the other side. She practically knew what it was. “Put this glass out of sight!”

She then undid the communication spell, while the boy's glass was put back in his pocket. And the vision became external again, as if seeing through a window.

They heard a noise outside the cells, like someone coming down to the dungeons. They saw the Witch opening the doors of Edmund's cell and the faun turned on his back, while Edmund crawled again near the tray.

"So..." said the Witch. “My police broke up the dike, you know?! Your little family was not found.”

Edmund was happy with that, but he couldn't let it show. The Witch then took him by the collar of her blouse, lifting him up on his fee.

“Where did they go?” she asked.

“I... I don't know” Edmund said, with difficult breathing.

“So you don't have any use anymore.” growled the Witch, playing it back to the tea it.

She raised her staff.

“Wait!” Edmund said, remembering Y/N's words. “The beaver said something about Aslam!”

The Witch lowered her staff, gaping.

“Aslam?” She asked. “Where?”

“I...”

“He is not from here, Your Majesty.” the faun intruded quickly. “He can't know anything.”

He was kicked by the dwarf that accompanies the Sorceress.

"I asked..." said the Witch, turning to Edmund again. “Where's Aslam?”

The faun looked pleadingly at the boy and he finally realized that he could not give the information he had. It would be the end of Narnia, the end of Aslam and worse: the end of his family and Y/N.

“I don't know.” he replied at last, preferring to lie. “I left before they said.”

The Witch looked at the faun, who bowed his head in thanks.

“I really wanted to see you!” said Edmund in a hurry.

“Guard!” cried the Witch.

“Yes, Your Majesty.” said a hoarse, gravelly voice. Soon afterwards, Edmund could see a hideous orc entering the cell.

“Free the faun!” ordered the Witch.

The orc tore the chains that bound Mr. Tumnus's hooves with an ax, while he whined and was dragged to the Witch' feet.

She turned to him and said.

“Do you know why you're here, faun?”

“Because I believe in a free nation.” He replied with difficulty, as swollen cheeks were a problem.

“You’re here...” she said and pointed the staff at Edmund. “because he handed you over. For sweets.”

The man looked at Edmund in amazement, who bowed his head, ashamed. The Witch lowered the staff and ordered the orc.

“Take him upstairs.” while the faun was dragged out, she turned to the dwarf. “Prepare my reindeer. Edmund misses his family.”

She turned and left the cell, leaving him there locked and alone. Or so they thought. As soon as he found himself alone there, he quickly picked up the piece of glass, seeing the girl there with a sad expression and almost in tears.

“Y/N, what do I do?” he asked, almost desperate.

Y/N had been thinking about it since she saw him coming out of the beaver dam. She would have tried, without a doubt, if I had not known that this was the destiny, that the ancient prophecy could not change. But now, nothing could stop her from trying.

“Now? You wait.” she said in a determined voice, as he stood with the glass still in hands.

“Wait?” Edmund asked, confused. “Wait to die?”

Y/N broke into an almost sadistic smile. “Wait for me. I'm already coming.”

And then she undid the spells and went to the camp to get her sword.

[notapaladin]

they say before you start a war (you'd better know what you're fighting for) (redux)

“I will just expand Acatl’s part a bit,” I said. “I’m not totally thrilled with the ending,” I said. “This will be a quick project,” I said.

FIVE THOUSAND WORDS LATER...y’all get this. Tizoc successfully executes Acatl during Harbinger of the Storm, and Teomitl will do anything to bring him back. Including hand over his own soul.

Original version here.

Also on AO3.

-

His knees hurt, and the stone under them was cold. It was an absurd detail to focus on when he was bound hand and foot with the executioner looping a garrote around two meaty fists next to him, but that was what stuck in Acatl’s mind. He was going to die, and his knees hurt. And, to add insult to injury, he was going to go to his death with his hair badly in need of a wash and something stuck in his back teeth. He prodded it with his tongue. It didn’t help at all.

He took one deep breath. Another. Any one could be his last. He was careful to keep them deep and even; he would not die sobbing and hyperventilating, begging for mercy. Though it be jade, it is crushed; though it be precious gold, it crumbles. For we do not live forever on this earth, but only for a little while.

A hand in his hair yanked his head up, and the cord came to rest loosely around his neck. He took another breath. Mihmatini. Teomitl. I’m sorry.

If only he’d had more time. His siblings would mourn him, he knew, but they knew he loved them. He’d said all he needed to say there. Teomitl was a different story. When he’d first agreed to teach him the magic of living blood, he’d never expected to feel so strongly for him. True, he’d grown fond of him quickly, but that had been very nearly against his will. His heart had been locked up so tightly for so long that the first crack in the stone had felt like the walls of the Sacred Precinct crumbling around him. At first, it had been terrifying. Over the past year, however...

Well. He didn’t think he could rightly call his feelings fondness anymore. Teomitl was stubborn as a rock and prickly as a cactus, but more and more Acatl had felt something soften like wax in his chest whenever he looked at him. Pride? Affection? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that it made his heart beat faster. That Teomitl’s radiant smile always brought an answering one to his own face. That when Teomitl looked even the slightest bit disappointed, the urge to pull him into his arms was near-overwhelming. That Teomitl was the most beautiful young man he’d ever seen. And now it would forever be a mystery. Now he would die, and Teomitl would never know that he might...he might...

His heart hammered against its prison of ribs, twisting nauseatingly as the realization struck. I might be in love. And I can never tell him.

Now his eyes were burning with unshed tears, and he forced them back with pure effort of will. This was a good thing. Teomitl was his student, a dozen years his junior, and courting his sister. There was no way he’d react well to learning his teacher had conceived a passion for him. He would die before he could be tempted to reveal what he’d learned and ruin the relationship they’d so painstakingly built. Teomitl would never be burdened with that knowledge. If he survived this, he would marry Mihmatini without guilt, and they would have a dozen children. Acatl could picture them now.

“And so the traitor falls.”

Oh, Duality preserve him. Instead of trying to fill his mind with calming thoughts of his family or his god, he was going to spend his last moments on earth listening to Tizoc gloat. Of all the indignities heaped upon him, this was one he knew he didn’t deserve. Somehow, he found words enough to snarl, “Hurry up.” It came out as a slurred rasp.

Tizoc smirked at him. He shut his eyes, but he could still hear the smug glee in his voice. It made him want to be sick. Throwing up on Tizoc’s sandals would even be satisfying; too bad the bastard was out of the likely splash zone. “And which of us is on his knees, priest? Which of us has betrayed the Mexica Empire with his words and deeds? It surely isn’t me; you know I’ve always worked for the good of Tenochtitlan, despite your efforts to obstruct my path. I do hope you’ll find an ample reward for your pains in the hereafter.”

There was more after that, but Acatl wasn’t paying attention. The cord was starting to draw tight. One more breath. Another. The darkness behind his eyelids was starting to flash. Another breath—no—he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t breathe. He bucked and jolted instinctively, eyes fluttering open in time to catch blurred images of Quenami and the She-Snake watching him; if he’d had his hands free, he knew he would be clawing his fingers to ribbons against the tough cord.

I can’t—

He needed air. He needed air and there wasn’t any, he was choking, he was going to die—

It wouldn’t be Tlalocan that awaited him, he knew, despite the manner of his death. A High Priest could go no other place than the realm of their patron. After this, he rather thought it would be a relief. At least in Mictlan, he could rest. Lord Death was always fair. Lord Death would let him fade the way his body was stubbornly refusing to.

No. It’s over. It’s over. I’m—only hurting myself—

His eyes snapped open as a twist of the cord sliced into his throat, feeling the sting and the trickle of upwelling blood. The sun blazed down, bathing the courtyard in light. For a moment, he could focus—there was Tizoc smirking, and there was Quenami with a twist to his mouth—but then the darkness flooded his vision again, and though he kept his eyes open he saw nothing.

This was it, then. He thought he should probably be afraid; maybe it was the lack of air that was making it so difficult for him to struggle. His limbs felt like stones, the hammering of his heart echoing like a drum through his ribcage.

The cord bit deep, but it no longer hurt.

He couldn’t feel his own limbs or heartbeat anymore. Soon, he couldn’t feel the cord either. Here at the end, there were no prayers to Lord Death he could offer. But then, he’d be seeing Him soon enough. He hoped Ichtaca wouldn’t be too overworked.

As he faded, he thought he heard the ahuitzotls’ song. And then...

Darkness.

&

Acatl’s knives burned at Teomitl’s hips, sending bile up into his throat and frozen emptiness down into his stomach, but they hadn’t yet damaged Huitzilopochtli’s wards woven over his skin and so he welcomed the pain. It was agony, but it spurred him onwards. He couldn’t afford to slow down or lose his focus, not even for an instant. Even that much of a delay would be too much time in which Acatl was in mortal danger. If he was late...

He didn’t want to think about what would happen if he was late. Part of him cursed Nezahual; if he hadn’t run out of power merely getting them out and finding them a boat, they’d have Quetzalcoatl’s magic to speed them on their way. Southern Hummingbird blind him, they’d probably even be safe by now. He could at this instant have been on a boat to safety in Tlacopan or Texcoco or gods, anywhere in the sea-ringed world as long as Acatl was in his arms. Instead there was only him and the ahuitzotls, who were still fast on land but not fast enough. He wished desperately that he’d been blessed by Mixcoatl instead, Lord of the Hunt, but there was no helping that now.

Instead, he prayed to them all, hoping desperately that fervor would make up for not daring to stop and offer his own blood. Gods, please. Please, I’ll build so many temples, I’ll cover you in gold, the blood of eagles, the hearts of jaguars—just let me save him.

They didn’t answer. He kept running. Down the corridor, through one room and another, turning when the sparks of Acatl’s knives sang close, close, and then he was bursting through the entrance curtain and for a heartstopping second he couldn’t move.

There was his brother, smug grin slipping into surprise as he registered the interruption. There was Quenami, backing away with his empty hands raised as though that would save him. There was the swirl of a black cloak around the far corner—the She-Snake, fleeing like a coward. There were even a few guards, looking panicked as they drew their weapons. And in the center of the courtyard was the executioner loosening his garrote to let Acatl fall bonelessly to the ground, eyes blank and unseeing. Dead. Dead. He didn’t need the rattling chill of the knives to tell him that.

No. No. Nonononono—

Teomitl’s mind was a whirlwind of horror and pain, but he’d been in enough campaigns now that his body knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t feel his hands, but that didn’t matter.

He drew his sword and opened himself to Chalchiuhtlicue’s power.

It felt like being at the bottom of the lake; it always did, but this time the water numbed him. He saw the world through lake water, through the eddying rush of a streambed. His heart pulsed like ripples on the shore. When he breathed, he tasted algae; inside his head, the ahuitzotls’ song rose in a chorus, threatening to drown out his thoughts.

In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we hunt In Tlalocan, the Verdant Land, we consume...

He sucked in a hard, painful breath and wrestled them back into submission. It had been harder since Axayacatl’s death, when his world had tilted; now that it was entirely inside-out, shattered irreparably, it was nearly impossible. He might not have managed it if he hadn’t given them their favorite command. Kill. Kill them.

They leapt to obey. He was only vaguely aware of their rush forward; the executioners and guards screamed as his beasts descended on them in a flood of snapping teeth and grasping claws, but he didn’t bother pitching in. The ahuitzotls had them well in hand. He tasted blood in his own mouth, felt the slick red heat of flesh tearing under his own claws—no, hands. He had hands, and they held a sword. And he had a job to do. The rabble didn’t matter. Even when one took a swing at him, he parried it without looking; all his attention was on Tizoc.

Tizoc, who had just slain Acatl. Tizoc, who was unarmed. Tizoc, who was trying to speak, as though anything he said could possibly bring Acatl back, could undo what he’d done.

“So you have betrayed me!” It sounded like it was coming from underwater.

It was just possible that, if he’d been contrite, he might have earned a few more seconds of life. Unlikely, but possible. But this? This—vindication, as though he was saying he’d been right, and he’d die being right? Teomitl inhaled sharply, feeling it scorch his lungs. “No.”

And then he swung his sword in an upward arc, feeling it cleave flesh and bone; something snapped off in Tizoc’s sternum on the way to the heart, but that was alright. He’d fix it later. Hot blood sprayed his face as Tizoc screamed and screamed and screamed, and some knot in his chest eased. Now I’ve betrayed you. It would take him a good, long time to die.

He turned away, lifting his head. The executioner and both guards were down, ahuitzotls feasting messily and adding the stench of entrails to the heavy odor of blood. They’d left a space around...around Acatl, and ice threatened to flood his veins. I’ve failed. Acatl, I’ve failed you. He wanted to crumple in on himself, wanted to curl around Acatl’s corpse and weep like a child. If he’d been minutes earlier, Acatl would still be alive. Avenging him, killing Tizoc—he knew, deep in his soul, that Acatl would have urged him not to. He would have urged him to consider the strength of the Mexica Empire and his own safety. Now he never would again. Grief rose like knives in his throat.

But he couldn’t give in to it, not yet; there was one foe in the courtyard he hadn’t yet accounted for. He could just make out Quenami huddling frozen and wide-eyed half behind a pillar, frantically trying to trace a glyph on the ground. He recognized the words of a spell on his lips, but that didn’t deter him. It would never be cast. He remembered the sight of a blade at Acatl’s throat with a sharp, sick swell of rage. Quenami had had the nerve to smile when dragging Acatl to his death. Teomitl would carve that smile from his face.

Water flowed around him even this far from the lake, washing Tizoc’s blood from his skin and lending him speed as he charged, sword raised. Quenami was frozen in fear, he could simply cleave his head from his shoulders and that would end it—

Again, he was too late. The strike slammed against glittering golden wards raised in the nick of time; as they spiderwebbed, a wordless scream tore its way free of his throat. His ahuitzotls screamed with him, abandoning their meals to circle this new target. He swung again, and the wards broke.

Quenami’s voice wavered—rank terror, not the ripples of Jade Skirt’s magic in his ears. If Tizoc’s death throes hadn’t died down to gurgling whimpers, he might not have heard it. “My lord...Teomitl-tzin, please!”

Please, he says. Rage threatened to choke him. Only his own self-control kept his hand steady, but the obsidian edge of his macuahuitl was pressed into Quenami’s neck just shy of drawing blood and it was extremely tempting to press harder. He wasn’t sure why he hesitated.

No, that was a lie. He knew why. Because Acatl, damn him, would have cautioned him against reckless slaughter. Would have warned him about the boundaries, about the safety of the Fifth World, about the godsdamned star demons trying to devour them all. If Coyolxauhqui truly was controlling them somehow, they would need the High Priest of Huitzilopochtli no matter what he’d done. But Acatl wasn’t here anymore to gainsay him, was he?

Would you have listened if Acatl had begged for his life? If he had asked to be spared, before you slew him? “Why? Why should I let you live?” His hand was still steady, but his voice shook. He would not cry in front of this bastard, this dog’s son who had torn his heart from him. He would not. Acatl is dead. He is dead, and it’s because of you. I will carve out your heart for his funeral pyre.

Quenami swallowed hard, meeting his eyes. Blood trickled down his neck from where the edge of the sword bit into his flesh. There was fear in his face, yes, but also a stone-hard resolve. “I can bring him back.”

He took an unconscious step backwards, feeling the edges of his grief crumble under the first light touch of hope. If he’s telling the truth. If...I could have Acatl back...

“...Speak.”

&

Quenami spoke. Indeed, once he was no longer in immediate danger it was difficult to get him to stop. There was a ritual, apparently; a secret passed down through Huitzilopochtli’s clergy from one High Priest to the next. Often it involved making a body of maize and amaranth dough, but given that Acatl’s remains were all in one piece they would be able to dispense with that step. All they would need to do—a trifle, really—was go down into Mictlan and convince Lord Death to relinquish Acatl’s soul. The hardest part would be opening the way, for which Quenami ordinarily required the other High Priests. Given the present circumstances, Ichtaca and the Guardian of the Duality would need to stand in for Acatl—Ichtaca for his connection to the underworld, and Mihmatini for raw power.

Mihmatini. Thinking of her brought another pang to Teomitl’s heart. They’d made plans to send her away for her own safety, but she hadn’t left for Popocatepetl yet. She would have to be informed of her brother’s death and the part she would play in his resurrection. Teomitl doubted it would comfort her much. It certainly wasn’t comforting him.

Acatl was dead. Teomitl had slashed the bonds around his cold limbs and closed his sightless eyes with shaking hands, cursing himself all the while that this was the tenderest touch he could offer, here where it no longer mattered. He should have spoken up when he had the chance, but what had he done instead? Picked stupid fights, clung blindly to his faith in the older brother who had once been admirable, failed to see the kind of man Tizoc was until it was far too late. If this works, he thought, I will lay the full truth of my heart at your feet and beg for your forgiveness.

Other people handled the cleanup after the slaughter, but that wasn’t Teomitl’s concern. He stood on the sidelines and watched as they gathered up the bodies and cleaned up the blood. There were questions. The She-Snake and the rest of the council showed up to answer them, with many sidelong glances in his direction. He hadn’t yet bothered to wash the blood from his skin. It seemed unnecessary.

Eventually Nezahual strode in, directing his warriors to place themselves at Tenochtitlan’s disposal. As he strode over to Teomitl’s darkened corner, Teomitl looked up from his idle study of the tops of his sandals to meet his eyes. Certainty filtered through the numbness. If he gives his condolences, I’m going to stab him.

“Teomitl.”

He held up a hand. “Don’t.” Not that he’d had enough bloodshed—Acatl was dead, he could float the city on a lake of blood and it still wouldn’t be enough—but if this worked, Acatl would probably be upset with him for maiming an allied Revered Speaker. Even if it was terribly, terribly tempting.

“I wasn’t going to.” But the way Nezahual’s eyes widened suggested he’d been thinking it.

“Good.”

Unfortunately, Teomitl’s curtness didn’t make the little bastard leave. No, instead he took a step closer and lowered his voice. “Is it true what I’m hearing? That Quenami can restore him to life?”

His heart gave a hard, painful lurch in his chest. He’d been trying not to think about that. Quenami had sounded so certain, but what if that was only self-preservation? What if he was only telling Teomitl what he wanted to hear? No, he thought finally. He wasn’t desperate enough for that. At least, not after Teomitl had taken the sword away from his throat. “He says it is.”

“Hmm. Hmmm.” Nezahual glanced away, stroking his chin. Teomitl forbore mentioning that it was an incredibly stupid-looking gesture on a youth who couldn’t grow a proper beard yet. Finally, he looked back at him and in a quiet, serious voice asked, “Can I help?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?” You had your chance, and your strength ran out when you might have prevented this. Do you think I’ll let you fuck it up again? Somehow, he managed to keep that behind his teeth.

Nezahual hesitated. “...I confess to feeling...somewhat responsible for Acatl’s current situation. I would not have this drive a wedge between us.”

Teomitl sucked in a hard breath. “No.”

“No?” He tilted his head like a snake, eyes just as cold.

Maybe it was stupid of him to rebuff him. No, he knew it was stupid, and he didn’t care. He could apologize later when his chest wasn’t full of knives. Right now, the idea of spending any more time in Nezahual’s presence made him want to kill something. Mihmatini and the priests would be strong enough. They’d pull Acatl’s soul out of Mictlan themselves. “You’ve done enough,” he spat.

Before it could deteriorate further, he spun on his heel and stalked away. Tears stung the corners of his eyes. He picked up the pace, almost running through the palace. Servants and nobles alike took one look at him and nearly dove out of his way—a good thing, because he wasn’t stopping. Anger and grief turned a tight whirlpool in his chest, keeping him on his feet. If he stopped to dwell on it, he would fall apart. He couldn’t do that yet. When Acatl is alive, he thought. When he breathes again, I’ll let myself remember this day.

Mihmatini waited for him in the Duality House. He was struck by how normal she looked, surrounded by slaves and underlings. The sun shone down upon her, clear and bright—it was a beautiful day, when there should be storms to match the one in his heart—and she wore a sleeveless blouse embroidered with flowers. Looking at her, he might almost think the world was alright again.

“I...” he began, and stopped. Just that one word was already bringing tears to his eyes.

She got to her feet, searching his face for something she didn’t find. Her own expression crumbled, but her voice was shockingly steady as she asked, “Acatl?”

He shook his head mutely.

“...So it’s true,” she whispered, and threw herself into his arms.

He held her tightly enough that it had to hurt, but she only wrapped her arms around him and shook silently, without tears. Somehow that made it worse; if she’d sobbed, he might have been able to wipe them away and feel a little more useful. Instead he buried his face in her hair, shut his eyes, and focused on his breathing. In. Out. In again. Slowly. No hyperventilating, or he would be the one weeping. And if he started, he didn’t think he’d be able to stop. Again he reminded himself, Not yet.

Finally she sucked in a noisy breath and released him, scrubbing at her reddened eyes with the back of her hand. I should have taken Tizoc apart piece by piece. Out loud, he said, “We need to talk.” Her entire body jolted, and he belatedly thought he could have phrased that better. “It’s not bad. It’s about—him.” He still couldn’t manage Acatl’s name.

She inhaled slowly and nodded, meeting his gaze. “I’ll take you to a private chamber. Follow me.”

He followed.

The room she led him to was bare and impersonal, with a colorful pattern on the wall he was far too unfocused to make out. The only thing that mattered was the expression on Mihmatini’s face—grief-tight, with eyes like flint. He couldn’t find words at first; when he did, he was surprised at how steady he sounded. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. “Quenami says he can be brought back. There’s a ritual. To—to pull his soul out of Mictlan and place it back in his body again. We need you.”

She stared at the floor. He saw her fists clench, knuckles going white in the folds of her skirt. “And you trust him?”

“No.” Not even as far as I can throw him. He took a breath and continued, “But it’s all we have. I...I was too late to save him, Mihmatini, I saw him fall.” Then his voice did break, and he shut his mouth before it could turn into a sob. Acatl’s skin had been so cold.

Mihmatini closed her eyes. “How...?”

He saw it again in his mind’s eye, that horrible ring around Acatl’s throat. The words floated up from far away. “...The flower garland.”

She took a slow, deep breath. He felt the magic of the Duality pulse within her, the thread connecting them flaring up like a line of fire. “Acatl wouldn’t want anyone to go through that. But if this fails...if it’s some sort of trap...I’m twisting the rope around Quenami’s neck myself.”

Some things never changed. He found he could breathe a little easier. “It won’t fail. It can’t. But if it does, you’ll have to. I killed the executioner.”

“And your brother.”

There was no judgment in that voice, but he felt something twist in his chest anyway. His nails bit into his palms as he snarled, “Acatl died of Tizoc’s—of his paranoia and incompetence! He killed him, as surely as if he’d done it with his own two hands. I’d do it over and over and be glad about it!” The emotion was too much. He had to shut his mouth, chest heaving. I wish I’d taken my time about it. See how many parts I could remove before he died.

Mihmatini was watching him, eyes shrewd. “You love my brother, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

For a shameful heartbeat, he thought of lying. Like a brother, he could say. Or, Of course, he’s my honored teacher. But he knew there was no use—Mihmatini’s words and tone had made it all too clear that she’d looked at him and seen straight to the core of his heart. He couldn’t deny it. Not when Acatl was dead and she was here, waiting for him to speak truthfully. He could give her nothing else.

Dropping his gaze to the mat and feeling his face catch fire, he whispered, “...I do. I’m sorry.”

She frowned at him. “For what?”

The question was so unexpected that for a moment all he could do was gape at her. Horror. Anger. A broken heart. He’d expected any one of those reactions. There was simply no good way to tell the woman you might marry that you were in love with her brother, not and still keep her in your life. And he liked Mihmatini—as a friend, if nothing else. He’d been looking forward to marriage and raising their children together, even though the secret he’d harbored would surely tear them apart if he let it slip. But she’d neither struck at him nor burst into tears, and so—at a loss for words—he spluttered, “I—you—he’s your brother—”

She sat back. Whatever she saw in his expression made her face relax into something less precarious than it had been. “I can share. If you think you can make him happy.”

“...I can try.” The wise thing would probably be to reassure her that she would always have the first place in his heart, but he wasn’t sure if that had ever been true. A sizeable chunk, certainly. But the first place had been reserved for Acatl since the moment the man had first bandaged his wounds after a lesson, hands cool and gentle, and he couldn’t see that changing. Acatl made him want to be stronger. More patient. Better. The least he could do in response would be to gladden the man’s heart. Once it beats again.

The frown was back. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I. Uh.” The vow he’d sworn suddenly felt like a much more uncertain thing. There’s no way he feels the same. Does he? What if he hates me for it? But Mihmatini knows her brother; she wouldn’t suggest if she thought it would bring him pain... He chewed hard on the inside of his gold lip plug, but for once the action didn’t help.

By the way she looked at him, his distress was obvious, but her voice held no pity or scorn. Thank the gods. “You should.”

He squared his shoulders and met her eyes. “I will.” They would bring Acatl back. He would breathe again, smile again, walk under the sun with his family again. And Teomitl would lay his heart at his feet, and if he was fortunate—please the Duality, let him be fortunate!—Acatl would pick it up. He refused to favor the idea of any other outcome with so much as a passing thought.

“Good.” Now she was almost smiling, and some pain-tightened corner of his heart relaxed. “He deserves that. He deserves...so much.” For a terrifying second her voice sounded watery, but then she squared her chin and added, “But you’ll do.”

It took a moment for him to register it as a dry attempt at humor, and the chuckle that came out had more in common with a sob. Oh, Mihmatini. What would we do without you?

She took a deep breath, wiping at her eyes. “Take me to Quenami. Whatever this ritual needs, I’ll do it.” After a moment she added, “And please don’t let me kill him until after we’re done.”

That settled it. If she’d still have him after all this, he was definitely marrying her.

&

The ritual needed a great many things. Acatl’s corpse needed to be washed and laid out—straight, not curled for a burial—and a suitable space prepared. Mictlantecuhtli’s temple handled that, watched over by a gray-faced and nearly silent Ichtaca in full regalia. Not Acatl’s, thank the gods, but something with almost as many owl feathers and clicking bone beads. Slaves brought the beasts they would need to sacrifice; Quenami moved gingerly among them, tallying cages of owls and hummingbirds and a huge, ill-tempered heron. Mihmatini carried armfuls of flowers for the Duality, the orange of marigolds and the red blossoms of plumeria the only color in the room.

Teomitl had never been in the temple’s innermost sanctum before, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about his surroundings when a single wrong move might put Acatl beyond his reach forever. He stood by, forcing himself not to fidget as the fog of centuries of Mictlan’s magic sizzled against his skin. It very much did not care for the residue of Huitzilopochtli’s wards, even though those had been ritually removed to make his job easier. Across the room stood Neutemoc, who hadn’t spoken a word since arriving with Mihmatini nearly an hour ago. At least there was one other person who would much rather be fighting a dozen star demons at once than standing here waiting. There was very little he could do; it was up to Quenami to sacrifice the hummingbirds and trace the glyph for Four Jaguar while Acamapichtli did the same with the heron and the glyphs for Four Water and Four Rain. Ichtaca, knife in hand, took care of the owls and Four Wind. Four glyphs for the worlds that had come before, and living blood to bind them all into the spell. Finally Mihmatini stepped forward, slashed her earlobes, and added her blood and the flowers to their work.

Quenami had the job of cutting a circle into the floor to enclose the space. He paused, gaze sweeping the room—how dare he, they couldn’t afford to waste time—and lighting on Teomitl’s face, heedless of his furious glare. Someone had bandaged the cut on his neck. “Only one of you can go into Mictlan. This is not my realm, and I cannot widen the path. It can’t be Ichtaca; he needs to hold the way for us here.”

Teomitl didn’t need to think about it. “I’ll go.”

Another voice echoed his; confused, he looked up to see Neutemoc take a step forward, face set with grim determination. He met Teomitl’s eyes as he continued, “He’s my little brother.”

“He’s my—” Friend seemed inadequate, teacher too base. Beloved was something he couldn’t allow himself to think lest he break. It was easier, safer, to reach for other justifications, and they came easily to him in the memory of Mazatl’s curious hands and Ollin’s gummy smile. “What of your children, if this fails? Will you leave them orphans? Stay here, and let me bring Acatl-tzin back.”

Neutemoc studied him for a long moment, searching for something in his face. Eventually he seemed to find it and stepped back with a satisfied nod. “You’d better.”

As Quenami knelt to close the circle, Teomitl moved to take his prescribed position kneeling by Acatl’s head. He didn’t look down. He couldn’t bear to see that face waxy and still, not now.

A dog’s throat was slit, and the hymns began. He let the words wash over him; as the chants rolled on, the world around him started to fall away. Mindful of instructions, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes, feeling the temperature drop. The air took on the stale smell of a thousand years of dust and the reek of decay, acidic emptiness scouring the back of his throat. He had a moment to be glad he hadn’t eaten anything, and then his head was swimming too much for him to think. The only thing anchoring him to life was his heartbeat, steady and strong.

Beat.

Beat. He was weightless, floating.

Beat.

A cold, wet nose nudged his palm, and he opened his eyes to a field of black stone, gray dust, and a sky precisely one shade lighter. The dog that had been sacrificed was sitting in front of him, tail sending up little clouds every time it thumped. There was wet crimson blood in its yellow fur, colors leaching to gray in light that seemed to come from nowhere and cast indifferent shadows.

It trotted off. He followed.

He very quickly lost track of how long he’d been walking. There were no landmarks here; he was walking the same path Acatl’s soul had walked at the moment of his death, and a High Priest didn’t have to contend with the rivers of blood and plain of knives that the common rabble did. Part of him was disappointed, for at least it would have been some measure of progress. The rest of him knew he wouldn’t have made it through so much as an overly deep puddle. He’d thought carrying Acatl’s knives was bad, but it was nothing to actually walking through Lord Death’s realm.

The air sapped all joy and hope from his soul, leaving only the grim certainty that he had to keep going. Even anger was too much effort; the heat of it was simply no match for the gnawing emptiness in his chest and the tremor in his limbs. Tears welled in his eyes, but he was too listless to blink and let them fall. Cold seeped through his veins and slowed his heart.

At least he could still feel it beating. He could take some comfort in that. Acatl, wait for me. I’m coming for you.

The dog seemed to know where it was going. Though obsidian shards bit through his sandals and bloodied his feet, they left no marks on its paws. He kept walking, one foot in front of the other; blood was a small price to pay for Acatl’s soul. He would offer his heart if he thought it would help. There was nothing else he could do for him now.

But oh, he was so cold. He was cold, and shivering sounded like too much work. Maybe he should rest for a while—yes, that sounded like a wonderful idea. There was a rock up ahead that had twisted itself into something vaguely like a tree, perfect to lean on.

He staggered towards it, slipping in his own blood, and fell facedown in the dust. It hurt. He couldn’t bring himself to care; the relief of letting the earth support his body was too great. Acatl could wait a little longer, surely. Surely...

Teeth fastened in his wrist, pain jangling up his arm. His eyes snapped open on instinct, free hand going for the sword he wasn’t wearing before he realized it was the dog tugging pointedly at his forearm with a growl that seemed to say, If you aren’t going to walk to Lord Death’s throne, then I will drag you there. It let him pull his arm free and stand up, but kept up its low, discontented rumble.

He felt like growling himself. Fool that I am, how could I have forgotten? I can rest later.

They walked on. His wrist throbbed in time with the beat of his heart, tethering him to the world and to his mission. He would not fail. The road stretched on before him, and all he had to do was keep walking. One step. Another. Another. His sandals were soaked with blood, making him slip; annoyed, he kicked them off and continued on. He’d walk forever if he had to.

And then the ground shifted, warped, folded, and he stood before a dais made of bones where the world was filled with rot and ashes.

Somehow, he’d expected a temple; instead, Mictlantecuhtli’s and Mictecacihuatl’s thrones looked as though they’d grown out of the ground. Bundles of femurs formed the low arms, and the seats were made of a collection of pelvises bound with curved jawbones. Lord and Lady Death lounged side by side, watching him with an expression of amused indulgence on their sunken, skeletal faces. Like I’m a dog that might be taught to perform clever tricks, he thought without much heat. He knew he should probably bow. He couldn’t make his knees bend.

Mictecacihuatl tilted Her head, studying him. “Well, well. What brings you to Our throne, little mortal?”

He’d never been good at speeches. It was something he’d been meaning to study, especially if he meant to move up through the ranks, but now there was no time. Besides, if They were like Acatl, They’d appreciate plain language more. “Acatl-tzin. Your High Priest. Where is he?”

“Ah.” She met Her husband’s eyes, and they shared a long look. She settled back on her throne, a fan of scapulas sprouting up behind Her, and said, “We have taken him into Our home, as is Our right and privilege. He has assumed his proper place at the foot of Our throne.” She gestured expansively, and he followed the movement to something he hadn’t noticed before.

There, just in front of and between the two thrones, was a tiny, fluttering moth under a thin dome of dust and air. He felt his heart stutter in his chest. “Acatl.” A wild thought seized him—grab him and run—but he knew he wouldn’t get far in Mictlantecuhtli’s domain. He’d be lucky even to feel the brush of wings against his skin.

He spun back to meet the gods’ gazes. “My Lady, My Lord, please reconsider. The Fifth World needs him back. We can’t—” The star demons. The boundaries. My empire. “We’ll fall without him.”

“Worlds have fallen before.” Mictlantecuhtli drummed His fingers on the arm of His throne, bone clattering on bone. “We have endured. We will always endure. Why should We give up such a loyal and well-beloved High Priest only to run the risk of him being killed again?”

Because I won’t let it happen again. Ever. He blinked dry eyes, feeling them prickle with dust. His eyes darted to where Lord and Lady Death sat on Their thrones, desiccated fingers almost touching. Even in their most formal attitudes, They leaned ever so slightly towards each other. Slowly, the words came to him. “Of all the gods, You know love best. My Lord...if My Lady were taken from You...”

“All existence would know My wrath until She was returned.” Mictlantecuhtli’s voice had all the finality of the grave, and Teomitl watched as His hand moved to cover His wife’s. “And is this why you are here, begging for Our priest’s life to be restored? For love?”

“Yes,” he whispered. “I never got to tell him.” It came out in a breath, barely audible over the breeze.

The gods shared another long look. Teomitl didn’t dare move. He willed his heart to beat quieter, lest it disturb them. The gulf in his chest howled.

Finally, Mictlantecuhtli spoke. “We will release him into your care.” Teomitl thought His skull face was attempting a smile. It was a terrible thing to see on a face that was mostly bone and dried skin. “But there will be a price for you.”

“I’ll pay it.” Here, at last, there was no room for doubt or hesitation. Whatever You want of me. Anything. My heart? My body? My life? It will be Yours. Just let me walk with Acatl out of here, let me set him back in his body and tell him how I love him.

“Brave boy.” The ash rose, nearly blinding him; when it cleared, the little moth was fluttering gently in front of his face. “You may take Our High Priest’s soul, and settle it back in his living flesh, and it will be like he never died. But upon your death, though you may die in glorious battle, you will take his place here.”

He cupped his hands around Acatl’s soul, feeling its tiny feet alight on his fingers. His heart felt full to bursting. He is here. He’s here. We did it. “As you wish, My Lord—my Lady.”

Mictecacihuatl snorted, waving Her hand. “You have what you came for. Be off with you, feather of the Hummingbird.”

Feather of the—? “Wait,” he began, but before he could even formulate a question there was a quincunx shimmering into being under his feet. For a long moment he knew nothing, was nothing, and then he was falling through ash again and back into the temple sanctum.

Beat.

Between one heartbeat and the next, he was present in his own skin. It felt too warm and too tight after his sojourn in Mictlan, breath rasping through his lungs, but he was kneeling by Acatl’s head and holding his soul in his hands so nothing else mattered. He could die immediately, and still nothing else would matter.

No, that wasn’t true. He still had to tell Acatl how he felt.

“Did it—?“

“Teomitl!”

He ignored the outcry around him. Instead he lowered his hands to Acatl’s mouth, letting the moth fly out to brush against Acatl’s lips where it disappeared in a brief, soundless burst of air. For an excruciating moment nothing happened, and despair threatened to drag him under. Is there more? Have we failed after all?

And then life flooded Acatl’s skin, and he took a slow, shallow breath.

Teomitl wanted to cheer. He wanted to sob. He wanted to curl up around Acatl and go to sleep for a month. He did none of those things. Acatl’s face was practically in his lap, filling him with so much tenderness he thought he might die of it; before he could even think to remember his audience, he reached down and cupped Acatl’s cheek, revelling in the warmth of living blood under his hands.

Thank the gods. Thank you, Lord and Lady Death, for this gift of Acatl’s life.

Things started to move quickly after that. Acatl was borne on a stretcher to recuperate in the palace, where the She-Snake had arranged for a team of Patecatl’s priests to meet him. Teomitl wondered if they’d be any use or if they’d just stand around making concerned noises; being brought back from the dead was surely not common enough to warrant a page in their codices. He supposed that if nothing else, they could do something about what promised to be some truly spectacular bruising on his throat. He wanted to go with him—surely he couldn’t be expected to leave Acatl alone, no matter that Mihmatini refused to leave his side—but when he tried to stand up he almost fell over, and Neutemoc had to help him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he muttered, face burning.

Neutemoc squeezed his shoulder, a brotherly gesture he’d never gotten from his own brothers. His eyes were suspiciously wet. “You brought my brother back. I should be thanking you.”

There were still too many people around. He couldn’t fall to pieces yet. “I won’t accept it. Anyone would have done the same.”

Neutemoc gave him a dry look so reminiscent of Acatl that he felt his throat close up. Before he could do or say anything else emotional, he shrugged off his hand and left. Star demons or no, he needed to be out in the sunlight. He needed to remind himself that he was alive, that they’d won at least this small victory.

The sun fell across his shoulders like a warm blanket, and he soaked it in with his eyes closed for a long, blissful moment. Here, there were no star demons. Here, there was no yawning chasm of power in the Mexica Empire. Here, he didn’t need to worry about consequences or the things he had left to do. Tizoc was dead, and Acatl was alive. The sun woke answering warmth in his blood. He could pretend he was free.

Then he opened his eyes and stared up at the blue sky. The clear blue sky, with not a single errant star piercing through the fabric of the heavens. His mind went blank in shock. We don’t have a Revered Speaker. Nobody should be channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power in the Fifth World right now. This shouldn’t be happening.

He blinked hard, rubbing his eyes, and took a second look. The sky remained clear. He squinted, trying to see if the tiny pale speck was a star or—no, it was just a cloud. The sky was still clear, and now his temples throbbed with the beginnings of a headache.

Footsteps behind him announced Quenami’s presence before the man spoke. “Well. Congratulations, my lord.”

He resisted the urge to whirl around and strangle the man with his bare hands. There’d be no point to it now that Acatl was alive. “Mn?” He didn’t mean to make it a question, but even for him Quenami was being obsequious.

Quenami chose his words with the air of a man picking his way through a field of obsidian knives. “Acatl has been restored to life thanks to you, and it...appears...that Huitzilopochtli has taken a liking to your bravery in walking into His enemy’s domain. Allow me to be the first to greet my new Revered Speaker-in-waiting.”

Oh. He stared down at his hands, seeing for the first time the faint tracery of gold glimmering over his skin, the warmth that he’d thought had just been the sun. In a manner of speaking, he’d been right. The Southern Hummingbird’s blessing. Is this what Mictecacihuatl meant? As he turned the idea over in his mind, his fists clenched. If the gods were choosing him for the office, then he would be worthy of it.

He would start by being honest. With himself, with Acatl, and with those less deserving.

“If you ever again address Acatl-tzin with less than full respect, Quenami, I will cut out your tongue.”

&

Darkness.

Pain.

It was the first thing that greeted Acatl as he swam up from the depths of unconsciousness. Everything hurt. His joints throbbed, his skin tingled, and his back ached. And his throat...his throat was the worst. It felt as though it had been squeezed shut, so sore and swollen that even breathing was agony. He lay flat on his back, staring at the inside of his closed lids, and tried to remember why that should be. The last thing he could recall with any certainty was the sham of a trial Tizoc and Quenami had put him through, where he’d been unable to mount even a few words in his own defense without drooling like an imbecile. And then...

The verdict. The flower garland. The courtyard. The ahuitzotls singing to him.

Teomitl.

He tried to stir, but at first his limbs refused to obey him. Alright then, he thought, small steps. Though it felt like moving an entire mountain, he could wiggle his toes. His fingers were next. His arms and legs felt constrained by something, but as he shifted he realized why. Instead of his own thin reed mat, he was laying on at least two thick new ones, and someone had covered him with a light cotton blanket like an invalid. He should have been sweating in the summer heat, but there was a chill sunken into his bones. The last thing he remembered was the garrote cutting off his breath. Swallowing brought a spasm of pain, a dry clicking noise, and the realization that he was desperately thirsty. “Mngh...”

“My lady? He’s waking.”

“Oh, thank the gods.” Mihmatini. She was safe, then. Whatever Tizoc had done, it hadn’t touched her. He thought she must be close by; he could hear the rustle of her skirts and smell the faint piney scent of copal incense. The small hand laid on his forehead was reassuringly warm. “Acatl, can you speak? How do you feel?”

“Grmngh.” He swallowed again. With another monumental effort, he wedged his eyes open. Mihmatini’s face swam into focus above him, pinched with worry but blessedly not bearing any injuries he could see. She’d braided her hair at some point, but now the simple plait was in disarray. The dark circles under her eyes looked bruised in the dim afternoon light, and there was fresh blood beading at her earlobes. I must be in terrible shape. “Sore,” he croaked, and then, “Water...?”

Water was brought, mixed with fresh-tasting medicinal herbs. He tried to push himself up and failed; his muscles were like softened rubber trying to move the cold, solid rock of his own flesh. Mihmatini’s hand at his back molded him into a more or less upright position so that he could drain the cup offered by a slave he recognized as Oyahuaca, ignoring both women’s concerned glances until he was hydrated enough to speak without feeling like he was gargling knives. It helped a little. Not much—gods help him, he was still so damnably weak, and his throat was in agony—but a little. He could think now, and with thought came questions. “What...what happened? Where’s Teomitl?” The ahuitzotls were singing. I know I heard them. Where they are, Teomitl wouldn’t be far behind.

Mihmatini shot a sharp look at Oyahuaca. “Fetch the Revered Speaker while I fill my brother in on what he’s missed.”

He heard the words, but they seemed to be slow in assembling themselves into a coherent sentence. The Revered Speaker? What did that have to do with Teomitl? Gods, he prayed they hadn’t elected Tizoc while he was indisposed. He couldn’t see that going well for anyone, not with that man’s paranoia given free reign. And Teomitl would surely be furious if that was the case, which wouldn’t improve the situation. He’d been in enough of a temper recently that Acatl really didn’t want to see what it looked like if it got worse. That wasn’t even mentioning the star demons. Was Tizoc even capable of channeling the Southern Hummingbird’s power? Somehow he doubted it, Master of the House of Darts or no. It would be just my luck to survive a garroting and immediately have my soul eaten by a star demon, he thought sourly.

It wasn’t until Oyahuaca rose and left at a pace that wasn’t quite a run that he managed to say anything. “Mihmatini.”

She took a deep breath, staring down at her hands. “Do you remember the courtyard? The—the flower garland?”

He nodded dully. It wasn’t likely he’d ever forget. His knees throbbed, a sense-memory of cold stone and naked fear. Of searing pain and darkness and the knowledge that he would die with things left unsaid. Knowing that he now had the chance to say them didn’t bring him any comfort. It wasn’t as though he realistically could, not if he expected a favorable outcome. “There were ahuitzotls.” And then there’d been nothing else. He’d blacked out, probably.

“Well.” She took another breath, hands clenching into fists. “The ahuitzotls were too late. You...” Oh no. There were tears in her eyes. “Teomitl arrived in time to see you die.”

No. His chest felt suddenly too tight, his hammering heart the only thing he could focus on. As if in a dream, he looked down at his hands and knew she was telling the truth. If he engaged his priestly senses, he could see the ghostly tendons and bones under his skin. The dry, cold, acidic emptiness of Mictlan gnawed sharp and vicious at his stomach, too close to the surface. He felt colder than ever. “I...”

I died. I died, and yet I am here. He sucked in a slow breath, tasting ash and herbs and cold water. Another breath brought the sour stench of the sickroom. He’d died. He’d died, and somehow he’d been brought back. Somehow he was here with a pounding heart and aches in all his bones, the pain further proof that he yet lived. Mihmatini sat close enough that he could feel her warmth; when he sniffed, the mingled scents of her perfume and a distant kitchen filled his nostrils. Someone was roasting chilies, and it made his stomach growl lightly. Alive.

Mihmatini was still talking, and he struggled to keep up with it. “He killed Tizoc on the spot. He would have killed Quenami, too, if that dog’s son hadn’t led the ritual to bring your soul back from Mictlan. After...after that, apparently the Southern Hummingbird made it known in no uncertain terms who He was choosing to wield His powers in the Fifth World, so the rest of the council elected to instate Teomitl as Revered Speaker.” She swallowed. “You’ve...you’ve been unconscious for a week. You missed his coronation.”

What?!

Teomitl was Revered Speaker? That was... Acatl shook his head in disbelief. He’s too young was his first thought, but immediately he knew that was wrong. He certainly wasn’t too young to take prisoners in battle, to be personally chosen by Huitzilopochtli. To be the man Acatl realized, with a sinking heart, that he was definitely still in love with, because the idea of Teomitl wearing the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown and still calling him Acatl-tzin, still looking to him for guidance, was doing something very strange to his emotions. He thought he might laugh. Or cry. Either was a distinct possibility.

It was too much. Mind spinning, he grabbed one thing out of the swarm of questions thronging his mind to focus on. He couldn’t handle politics now, not in the state he was in, but the workings of even the most esoteric magical rituals were refreshingly familiar. Even if they involved—ugh—Quenami. “Lord Death should not have released me. So...how...?”

A faint smile crossed Mihmatini’s face. “You should ask Teomitl about that when he arrives. He’s been very worried about you, no matter how many of us tell him that you’re recovering well. If it wasn’t for his coronation, I really don’t think he’d ever leave your side.”

He felt himself blush. “I’m sure you’re exaggerating.”

She snorted and gently shoved at his shoulder, shaking her head. “I’m sure I’m not! He loves you more than he does me.”

He couldn’t possibly have heard that right. He sat in silence for a moment, willing the words to make sense. Mihmatini had to have said something else—meant something else. When she didn’t follow up with any sort of clarification and he realized she was looking at him for a reaction, he found his voice cracking in shock. “He—what?!”

“You heard me.” And now she was unmistakably smiling. For the first time in his life, Acatl wanted a cup with something significantly stronger than water.

It didn’t seem likely that he’d get it. She was still looking at him, seemingly happy as anything, and she’d just told him that the man she was courting was in love with him. He didn’t need to pinch himself—he was in quite enough pain that he knew perfectly well he had to be alive and conscious, thank you very much—but it still didn’t seem real. He couldn’t be that fortunate. He’d made his peace, hadn’t he? He’d determined already that he would go to the grave with his feelings rather than ruin the relationship Teomitl and Mihmatini were building.

Except he had gone to the grave. And somehow—he was not giving Quenami all the credit, he flatly refused, a man had to have some limits—he’d been pulled out of it. And now Mihmatini was telling him that Teomitl had been worried about him. That it had taken the long, painstakingly involved rituals of a royal coronation to pull him away from Acatl’s sickbed. That he loved him. “But you...he...” At a complete loss for words, he gestured in the air between them.

She shrugged carelessly. “Oh, the wedding is still on. We were waiting for you to wake. But I’m not first in his heart, and that suits me fine.”

He swallowed, another grinding flash of pain. Belatedly he remembered his water, and took a long gulp before answering. “...If you’re happy.” Regardless of whether she was the Guardian of the Duality or Teomitl’s wife, she’d always be his little sister. Her happiness was far, far more important to him than his own heart. Even if it seemed, amazingly, that he had nothing to fear.

“I am.” Her grin made her whole face glow. “And you?”

“What about me?” She didn’t know. He was entirely sure she didn’t know, not when he’d only realized it himself moments before he died.

She swatted him again. “Tizoc is dead, you’re alive, and you very definitely have the favor of our new Revered Speaker. The boundaries are safe. The star demons aren’t a threat anymore. I’d say that’s plenty enough to be happy about.”

He had to sit with that for a moment, still clutching his empty cup in both hands. She was right, of course. He was alive. They were safe. Teomitl was Emperor now, and he was no paranoid coward like his brother had been. No, instead he was brave and strong and whip-smart and he...Mihmatini said he might... Gods, he thought dizzily. He had thought there was no chance. He had died thinking there was no chance.

Mihmatini was looking at him. He choked out a grunt. It was the closest he could get to an actual response.

Someone was sprinting down the hallway outside. It was all the warning he got before the entrance curtain was yanked aside so roughly that it nearly came off its hanging rod; the cacophony of bells that announced the intrusion nearly drowned out the cry of, “Acatl-tzin!” that accompanied it. Teomitl stood in the doorway for a moment, relief plain on his face and the Turquoise-and-Gold Crown equally plain on his head.

Acatl couldn’t look away. He’s been crowned. He is my Emperor now. And he still...he still calls me Acatl-tzin. He wanted to laugh for the sheer joy of it.

Mihmatini rose gracefully, but the smile she turned on Teomitl had an edge to it. “I’ll leave you to talk.”

&

After Mihmatini left, all Acatl could do was stare at Teomitl. Absurdly, he thought, He looks the same. The same lean, solidly muscled build, the same nose and eyes, the same little scar on one elbow where a training sword had caught him as a child. True, his cloak and sandals were rich turquoise, his earrings and lip plug were jade and gold, and there was a slender emerald rod piercing his nose, but his face hadn’t changed. It was still open and guileless, every emotion writ clear. He loves you, Mihmatini had said. Acatl thought he could believe it.

Slowly, carefully, Teomitl sank down next to his mat. He couldn’t seem to tear his eyes away from Acatl’s face; for a moment Acatl thought he was going to reach for him, but he seemed to think better of it. “I...how are you feeling?”

How am I feeling, he asks. Again he thought he could laugh, but there was no joy in it; under his skin, dry dust rustled like paper. His bones still ached. Even with the blanket over him, there was a chill clinging to his skin. The words were out before he could stop them, more acidic than he’d intended. “...I’ve just been dead, Teomitl. How do you think?”

Teomitl jerked back, glaring at him with more hurt than anger. “It’s a valid concern!” He swallowed once, visibly, and added in a softer voice, “We weren’t sure when you’d wake.”

There was a tremor to the words Acatl really didn’t like, and Mihmatini’s words crossed his mind again. She’d never answered the question of how he’d returned. Part of him didn’t want to know. He was alive, wasn’t he? Let the details rest. But if Teomitl had done something...ill-advised to bring him back, then it was his responsibility to help fix it. Even now that Teomitl was Revered Speaker, it was still his responsibility. He took a deep breath. It didn’t hurt so much anymore. “I’m just glad to be able to wake at all. Mihmatini told me that Quenami provided the magic, but how...?”

Teomitl dropped his gaze, but his voice was firm; his shoulders rolled as though he was preparing for a fight. “...Someone had to go into Mictlan. I volunteered.”

What. The words crystallized in his mind, horror slicing like swords. It’s one thing for me to go—I am Lord Death’s servant! But Teomitl, sworn to the Southern Hummingbird and Jade Skirt, walking through enemy territory—for me—

“Lord Death was...willing to release your soul to me.”

He forced himself to breathe. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. Mictlan gives up nothing without a price. For Teomitl to walk back to the Fifth World with my soul... With dread gripping his heart in eagle claws, he forced out, “What did He want in exchange?”

Silence. Teomitl closed his eyes on a long exhale.

“What did He want, Teomitl?!”

“Mine!” Teomitl’s eyes snapped open, filled with an anguished emotion Acatl couldn’t even begin to unravel. His fists clenched, white-knuckled, as he caught Acatl’s gaze and held it; he was stunned to see tears in his eyes. For all that, his voice held steady with barely a waver. “I offered Him my soul in exchange for yours, and He accepted. When I die...I’ll go to Mictlan. And it will be worth it, Acatl-tzin, do you understand?” He raised his voice right over the feeble noise that escaped Acatl’s lips. “It will! Because I lied to Tizoc, you’re mine, and I couldn’t let you die!”

Horror—he did that for me, gave up all hope of the Sun’s Heaven for me—almost threatened to swamp him. Teomitl was a warrior. He was the Emperor. He deserved an eternity by the side of the Sun, and he’d thrown it all away for him. For a poor priest from a family of peasants.

“I’m what,” he choked out. “Teomitl, what were you thinking?!”

“You heard me!” Teomitl snapped, making a furious stabbing motion with his hand.

His heart felt as though it had, impossibly, migrated up into his throat. He could barely speak around it. “But I...but...” Your soul. The place in the heavens you deserve. Even Tizoc might go there, if he died with a weapon in his hand. And you never will.

Teomitl had clearly decided there was no room for remorse or second-guessing himself. He raised his voice to a snarl. “No buts!” He jerked his head to one side, eyes shutting too slowly to stop the trickle of tears down his face. Acatl felt his heart crack in two at the sight. It was worse when Teomitl scrubbed at his eyes with the back of a hand, made a horribly wet throat-clearing noise, and bit out, “You’re the most important person in the world to me, Acatl-tzin.”

Helpless, he reached for him—and stopped. No matter how much he wanted to pull Teomitl into his arms, he had a feeling it wouldn’t go over well. “I’m not—” He stopped. Started again. “I’m just—”

Teomitl looked up, glaring at him through reddened eyes. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. Your life is worth more to me than anything else.”

Including your brother. He didn’t say that. His own eyes burned. “Mihmatini told me Tizoc-tzin is dead.”

“He is.” Teomitl’s voice was striving for neutrality, but there was too much bitter fury still lingering in it for it to ring true. That, and he still sounded close to tears.

Acatl had to swallow tears of his own and wished for more water. “By your hand?” He found he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Yes, brothers should stand by brothers, and unquestionably that precluded murder. On the other hand...well. He could admit to a certain petty vindictiveness. Tizoc had executed him for a crime he hadn’t even committed. That certainly deserved death in return.

“I had to,” Teomitl said simply. Now he sounded steady, but his knuckles had gone white where he’d grabbed a fistful of his jade-beaded cloak.

“...Why?” But even as he asked, he knew the answer. The knot in his chest started to loosen, and he found he could breathe.

Teomitl recoiled, staring at him incredulously. “For you, you fool!” It came out ragged, raw. He had to take a breath before continuing, “I saw you and—Tizoc tore my heart from my chest when he killed you, Acatl-tzin. I returned the favor.”

Oh. Oh. Mihmatini was right. By the Duality, she was right. And so was Teomitl; he was a fool, because he’d thought he could possibly have hidden how he felt. There would be no hiding this. His heart was hammering so fiercely he could feel it in his fingertips. He was still exhausted, still sore from his encounter with death, but that didn’t matter next to the cataclysm of emotion swirling through him. It was for me. He went into Mictlan for me, slew his own brother for me. Because...

It still didn’t seem possible. He was no great warrior or dazzling beauty. He would bring no glory to his clan. He could only hope to be a good man, to serve the gods and the empire well. And yet somehow, he’d earned a place in Teomitl’s heart.

“...Teomitl.” It seemed to be the only word in his reeling mind. He realized he was leaning closer, that it would be so easy for him to close the distance between them, and only just stopped himself in time.

Teomitl swallowed convulsively, dropping his gaze. Even in the dim light afforded to them, it was easy to see him turn a dull, dark red. “I—” His hand shot out, fingers wrapping around Acatl’s and squeezing tight. “Acatl-tzin. Acatl.”

He’d never heard his name like that before—harsh and desperate, unspoken emotion ringing through it like bells. It made his heart skip a beat, and for a moment he could barely breathe. “Are you not...?” The Revered Speaker, he wanted to say, as far above me as the sun in the sky. But the words lodged in his throat and stuck there; helpless, he gestured to Teomitl’s turquoise adornments with his free hand. The other one was still held firmly in Teomitl’s grasp, making it easy for him to tangle their fingers together. Whether you are or not, I’m yours.

It must have been the right thing to do, because Teomitl was looking at him again. “Yes. But...” His tongue darted out to wet his lips, and Acatl’s focus followed it. “To you, I want to be Teomitl.”

He wasn’t cold anymore. Warmth pulsed through him like another heart, and Mictlan’s chill had never felt farther away. “And...” The words were out before he could call them back; maybe it was a stupid question, but he had to know. He had to be sure, before he did something he might regret. There were many different ways to love, and it was entirely possible that what Teomitl had said and what Mihmatini had heard were two entirely different things than the emotion coursing through him now. “Is that all you want from me?” Please say it isn’t, he thought desperately. Please say I’m not the only one willing to follow anywhere this leads.

Teomitl’s thumb smoothed over Acatl’s fingers, very nearly distracting him from his words. “No,” he said simply.

Now he knew he wasn’t breathing. Teomitl’s hand on his was his greatest anchor to the earth. “Ngh?”

Teomitl smiled, brief and radiant, as his gaze drifted pointedly to Acatl’s mouth. “When you are well enough, I’m going to kiss you.”

It was a simple statement of fact—the sky is blue, Grandmother Earth is hungry, I am going to kiss you. Acatl took a moment to breathe, feeling the foundations of his world lift and resettle themselves to account for this new version of reality. His limbs still felt too heavy and his throat was a dull-edged sword of pain, but none of that mattered. Teomitl had brought him back to life, saved the Fifth World, loved him.

He tilted his head and leaned in, the clearest invitation he could give. “...I’m well enough now.”

Teomitl closed the distance.

He’d thought about what kissing Teomitl might be like. He’d been ashamed, yes, but Teomitl was an attractive youth who smiled easily and his vow of celibacy didn’t make him a eunuch. He’d imagined something rough and passionate, maybe a little clumsy in his eagerness. He’d imagined more teeth. He hadn’t imagined soft, gentle lips pressed to his, coaxing his mouth open. He loves me. It was the easiest thing in the world to relax into it, letting the arm Teomitl slid around him take his weight as he kissed back.

From there it was only natural to pull him close in return. Acatl rested a hand at his waist, revelling in the heat of the smooth skin there and the small, soft noise Teomitl made into his mouth. It almost sounded surprised, and he couldn’t help but smile. Did you not think I wanted to touch you? Oh, but it was too difficult to kiss someone when you were smiling, and soon he had to pull away. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life.

“Acatl.” Teomitl was smiling too; they bumped noses, and Acatl had to suppress a little bubble of laughter. “You don’t know how happy I am right now.”

“I think I can guess.” He ran his fingers lightly over Teomitl’s side—too lightly, evidently, because it startled a squeaky, adorable giggle out of him. He hadn’t realized Teomitl could laugh like that. He certainly hadn’t realized the man was ticklish. Now there was no use suppressing his delight, nor the grin that threatened to split his face.

Teomitl’s eyes narrowed warily, but without any real heat. “Do not. I swear to the Duality, I’ll take back everything I just said.”

He decided to be merciful, smoothing his hand over the skin instead and watching the delicate little shiver that resulted. “You won’t. You never break your word.” He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Teomitl loves me. I love him in return. That will never change, not in this world.

“Mm.” Teomitl kissed him again, brief and sweet. “No, but I wouldn’t mind the chance to say it again properly.”

“Properly?” He’d done an excellent job of expressing his feelings as far as Acatl was concerned. There was surely no chance of him misunderstanding kisses like that, not when they were still making his skin tingle.

But apparently Teomitl disagreed. He blushed again, averting his gaze. “This isn’t how I wanted to say...any of that,” he muttered. “I had plans. And besides, I was hardly sure you were going to listen!”

He felt like he’d been stabbed. How long? How long was he carrying this? And I was blind. I didn’t even realize what was in my own heart until the last moment. Duality curse him, he’d been a prize idiot. “Teomitl...” he murmured.

Teomitl glanced at him out of the corner of his eye. There was the faintest hint of a rueful smile on his face. “I thought for sure it was doomed,” he muttered. “That I’d have to take it to my grave. I thought I didn’t have a chance.”

Acatl was already shaking his head. Or rather, he shook his head once; continuing the motion reminded him he’d been recently strangled, and his neck muscles had opinions on that. “You thought wrong. I...” But he stumbled over the words, flustered.

“Hm?” He was acutely aware of the way Teomitl froze, watching him.

Well, there was no stopping it now. And it was the truth, besides. “I love you,” he blurted out.

Teomitl went spectacularly crimson, but Acatl didn’t have much time to admire the view because then they were kissing again. It was still slow and careful, but this time Teomitl shifted to lay them both onto the mat and that turned out to be considerably easier on his sore muscles, not to mention giving him an excellent chance to skim a palm all the way down the exposed skin of Teomitl’s side. Teomitl hummed into his mouth, an intoxicating noise. “Mmm...”

Even when he broke the kiss, he didn’t go far. He didn’t want to. “Does that mean you believe me?”

Teomitl’s smile was like a sun rising. “You’re right. Mictlan might have my soul, Acatl, but my heart is yours.”

He’d almost forgotten. He’d almost forgotten. He closed his eyes, unwillingly assaulted with far too vivid memories of the cold and the darkness and the dust. But he still tasted Teomitl’s mouth on his when he licked his lips, and that helped to banish it a little. “I still cannot believe you did that,” he muttered.

Teomitl held him tighter, huffing out an annoyed-sounding breath. “I had nothing else to give. Oblivion is worth it as long as I can spend my life with you.”

He inhaled sharply. “Oh, Teomitl.”

There was nothing for it but to draw Teomitl in for another kiss, this one deeper; as hands found his hair, his own dug into Teomitl’s skin. After a second’s worth of surprise, Teomitl returned the fervor with a growl. There were the teeth he’d been wondering about, and he welcomed them. If he’d had the energy—if the Revered Speaker could be assured of any privacy at all—he would have allowed himself to crave more. Since they couldn’t, he settled for catching Teomitl’s lower lip lightly between his teeth and thrilling in the soft gasp before he pulled away just far enough to breathe, “Then I hope we die on the same day, in the same hour. I won’t let you walk through Mictlan alone.” Not again, at any rate.

Teomitl grinned at him. “It will be a good journey.”

Upon their deaths, they would both dissolve into dust at the foot of Lord Death’s throne. But here and now, they were alive. Acatl found he was looking forward to that.

[jlieu-2]

Literature Review

                    Religious Beliefs and Refusal of Medical Treatment

In the medical field treatment is always centered around the patient. This means that the medical staff have to create a care plan that is convenient for the patient. This includes adhering to the patient’s wishes, which can also include refusing medical treatment due to religious reasons. There are many religious groups who refuse certain medical interventions even though these treatments can save their lives. This is a very common and delicate issue that many healthcare professionals have to deal with. Which brings about several questions: who are these religious groups and which medical treatments do they refuse, are there exceptions or alternatives for treatments for these religious groups that refuse, and what are the legal and ethical problems that follow with refusing medical treatment?

          Who Are These Religious Groups And Which Medical Treatments Do                                                           They Refuse

Christian Scientists

In general Christian Scientists believe that Mary Baker Eddy, the founder of the Church of Christ, Scientist, had “...developed the ability to heal herself and others physically through prayer and her [metaphysical] interpretation of the Bible…” (Steckler) A study done by the Journal of Scientific Study of Religion defines that healing through metaphysical methods is more of a spiritual type of healing rather than physically healing the body. This study also found that Christian Scientists will use three strategies when they are trying to treat an illness. First they will try to seek guidance from God, which is a readily available source for answers for these people. It is also a good place for these people to turn to when they are lost and do not know what to do. If they are unable to obtain an answer from then it is normally viewed as a “... personal error rather than the will of God or a flaw in Christian Science treatment.” Meaning that the problem lies with the individual and not with God nor the teachings of Christian Science. When this happens Christian Scientists start to assess  their metaphysical capabilities to see if they can heal wounds, including physical ones such as broken bones. However, if an individual's metaphysical capabilities are not strong enough then they will not be able to heal certain wounds. Furthermore, physical injuries are more difficult to heal, so in order to treat these their metaphysical capabilities need to be really strong. If their capabilities are not strong enough Christian Scientists fall back to their last strategy for treatment, which is to consider professional medical intervention.

Jehovah’s Witnesses

The other religious group is the Jehovah’s Witnesses who only refuse blood transfusions. This refusal is based on certain passages in the Bible. Basically “The prohibition of transfusions is based on the premise that transfusions are similar to eating blood; the rules for handling animal blood are also applicable to human blood” (Ringes) This reasoning essentially ties into why the Jehovah’s Witnesses reject  foods that contain blood. As previously stated this group only refuses blood transfusions, meaning that they will not refuse other procedures unless they involve a transfusion. An example of this is an invasive surgery where several packs of blood are needed to make sure the patient does not bleed out during the procedure. Unfortunately, due to this belief there were many Jehovah’s Witnesses that have passed away. For example, there was a case in Ringe’s article where a “...twenty-two-year-old Jehovah’s Witness (JW) Emma Gough, from Britain, died after giving birth to twins in 2007…” because she refused to accept blood transfusions after suffering from a sudden hemorrhage.

Exceptions and Alternative Treatment

Fortunately due to religions being more open-minded as well as advancements in medical treatments there are ways for religious groups, such as the Christian Scientists and the Jehovah’s Witnesses, to get the medical attention they need. As explained previously the third strategy to seek treatment for the Christian Scientists involves them pursuing conventional medical treatment. It is explained that “... many adherents indicated that they have, or would be willing to, pursue conventional medical treatment in situations where metaphysical healing methods are impractical or have not been successful.” (Boyer)  However, it is really up to the individual if they want to pursue this third option. Fortunately, any Christian Scientist that decides to use medical science is not considered as a rejection of the religion. Instead it is “...perceived as a departure from Christian Science as a healing modality…” (Boyer)

For the Jehovah’s Witnesses there are alternative treatments that  will aid with their medical conditions that do not involve the use of blood transfusions. It is explained that “The medical community has often offered JWs alternatives to blood transfusion, such as bloodless surgery and transplantations... and blood substitutes.” (Ringes) Unfortunately, alternatives such  as these are not always available in clinical situations, which can very likely end up in the worse case scenario of an early death. (expand on article more)

Legal and Ethical Issues With Refusing Treatment

The most troublesome problems that are involved with refusing treatment are the legal and ethical issues. The most common ones are the incidents when the parents refuse treatment for their child, which can be considered religious based medical neglect and child abuse. For example, there was a case that involved a two year old boy, Harrison Johnson, getting stung 432 times by wasps. However, instead of taking their child immediately to the hospital, Harrsion’s parents decided to abide by their Christian Science doctrine and “...requested that fellow church members and neighborhood children pray for Harrison.” (Boyer) After seven hours of their child suffering Harrsion’s parents decided to call 911, but when the E.M.T arrived Harrsion was found dead. (expand more and cite another article for another case)

These legal cases are not just limited to children and patients. There are healthcare professionals that refuse to give their patients certain medications due to religious beliefs. For example, there was a pharmacist in Michigan who refused to give a female patient her medications for her miscarrange due to his Catholic beliefs.

                                           Works Cited

Boyer, Mitsy. “Death by Religious Exemption: Parents Refusing Their Child Necessary Medical Treatment Based upon Their Own Religious Beliefs - Should States Endorse a System That Denies Necessary Medical Treatment to Children.” Whittier Journal of Child and Family Advocacy, vol. 4, no. 1, 2004, pp. 147–162. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=sso&db=edshol&AN=edshol.hein.journals.wjcfad4.23&site=eds-live&scope=site.

Caron, Christina. “Michigan Pharmacist Refused to Dispense Miscarriage Medication, Citing Religious Beliefs.” The New York Times, 19 Oct. 2018. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=sso&db=edsgac&AN=edsgac.A558791903&site=eds-live&scope=site. 

Effa-Heap G. “Blood Transfusion: Implications of Treating a Jehovah’s Witness Patient.” British Journal of Nursing, vol. 18, no. 3, Feb. 2009, pp. 174–177. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=sso&db=ccm&AN=105455279&site=eds-live&scope=site.

Steckler, Rebecca A., and John P. Bartkowski. “‘God Is My First Aid Kit’: The Negotiation of Health and Illness among Christian Scientists.” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, vol. 57, no. 3, Sept. 2018, pp. 585–603. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1111/jssr.12533.

Ringnes, Hege Kristin, and Harald Hegstad. “Refusal of Medical Blood Transfusions Among Jehovah’s Witnesses: Emotion Regulation of the Dissonance of Saving and Sacrificing Life.” Journal of Religion and Health, vol. 55, no. 5, Oct. 2016, pp. 1672–1687. EBSCOhost, doi:10.1007/s10943-016-0236-5.

“Why Don’t Jehovah’s Witnesses Accept Blood Transfusions?” JW.ORG, www.jw.org/en/jehovahs-witnesses/faq/jehovahs-witnesses-why-no-blood-transfusions/.

[throwaninkpot]

A thief must be unpredictable. That is what Grandfather has been teaching Gen. A theft is all the more difficult when they know how and when you will attempt it; a hiding spot is no good if they expect to find you there. Gen’s cousins would know to look for him in the trees lining the garden, clinging to the branches and hiding from them. Besides, the trees made terrible cover this time of year, with their limbs bare and leaves raked into piles on the ground.

His cousins would not expect to find him in the piles of leaves.

The trouble, Gen decided, would be staying still enough that the leaves did not rustle or quiver around him. It was more than just not moving–his breathing might give him away. He could hold his breath for almost two minutes, but he would need to hide for longer than that. Instead, Gen worked on breathing shallowly. He spent several nights lain awake in bed to practice keeping still, watching the blanket over him to as he tried not to let it rise and fall with his chest.

Once he was satisfied with that, the next step required sneaking into the storerooms off the palace barns. That meant braving his way past the horse stalls. Gen skittered by them with a wary eye on the tall creatures with their long, dangerous legs and sharp,dangerous teeth. At the bins where fresh and clean straw was stored, he shifted through the piles until he found a piece that would suit his needs. A long and hollow stem. He put it between his lips and gave a few practice puffs, and then nodded. Perfect.

Now, the trick was getting into a leaf pile without being spotted.

At dawn the next day, all the boys in the dorms were roused from their beds and herded into the training yard for morning exercise. The girls filed in from their dorm, and all of them sparred. The soldiers who taught them paired them off and watched, correcting them when they fumbled a stance or attack, and nodding in approval when they did well. After an hour of that, the children were dismissed to breakfast, and then tutiring until lunch. There was a small space of free time before lunch, and during that, most of his cousins would take to the gardens, seizing advantage of the last of the clear weather before winter’s snows piled up. This was when Gen would pounce, quite literally.

He darted out to the rear garden before the rest of his cousuins, and found a tall pile of leaves by a cluster of bushes. The garden was all but empty except for a handful of gardeners, who were busy on the otherside of the lawn. When their backs were turned, Gen ducked down and burrowed inside the leaves. The pile settled around him. He pulled out his hollow straw and poked it through the leaves until it reached open air, and held the other end in his mouth. There were stories of heroes using just such a thing to hide in water, and Gen felt clever for having realized it would work as well in leaves. He rested in a crouch on his knees and elbows.

And now, he waited.

Patience was another skill important for thieves. One that Gen had not mastered, yet. But Grandfather said he could learn it, with practice, and this would be nothing if not excellent practice. Grandfather would be proud, and he would grin when Gen told him how well he surprised Agus or Breia or whichever cousin came close enough for him to jump out at. Grandfather always appreciated a good prank.

Gen sat and watched through the leaves, and grinned in anticipation. Some of his cousins made it to the garden, but none of them walked near his hiding spot. They were soon followed by his oldest sisters, Adrasteia, who did make her way over to his side if the garden. She knelt and poked at one of the bushes, and Gen tensed, wondering if she was looking for him.

Footsteps crunched across the gravel and twigs, and legs appeared by Adrasteia. Gen couldn’t see their face, but judging by the mudied pants stuck with leaves, it was one of the gardeners.

“Good day, Lady Adrasteia,” he greeted her.

Adrasteia looked up, and all but beamed. “A good day it is. One of the last good days before winter, I suppose.”

They exchanged pleasantries. The gardens looked so barren this time of year, Adrasteia said. Yes, the gardener agreed, hardly worth a visit. Adrasteia had just come to see browned plants and empty trees. Oh? the gardener asked. Adrasteia grinned. She was also searching for her youngest brother. It seemed he had skipped out on training with their father. Again.

All of the children in the palace of Eddis trained as a group, at least twice a day but more often as they grew older. The Minister of War, however, made a point to train with his children personally. He met with them before lunch three days a week. This was one of those days.

Gen smirked. It had been an excellent time to plan this scheme with the leaves.

His sister and the gardener then lowered their voices, and Gen’s ear pricked up. The quieter people got, the more interesting were the things they said, and the more he paid attention. He couldn’t hear all of it, but their conversation took a certain sentimental turn. Gen made a face. His oldest siblings had been getting like tgat recently.

This did give him some excellent things Adrasteia about, and maybe he could get some favors out of her if he let on to what he knew and promised not to tell anyone.

The gardener reached down to take her hand and help her rise, and when they hands parted, Gen caught a sparkle in the gardener’s palm.

“What will people think if people recognize this as yours?” the gardener asked.

“That you managed to steal a broach off the Thief’s granddaughter?” Adrasteia teased.

“How careless of you to let that happen.”

“Oh, no, my reputation.Whatever will I do?”

Her voice was dripping with honey. Gen made another face.

The two left, and Gen waited once more. None of his cousins had ventured near enough yet. It would be lunch soon, he thought, growing impatient. His elbows and knees were damp from tge ground. He might as well have just jumped out at Adrasteia, so that he had the satisfaction of surprising someone.

An irritated huff of breath puffed out through his straw. Gen peered through the leaves. The nearest group now were three of his cousins playing with a ball just on the otherside of the bushes–Xeno, Agape, and Hegite. Hegite, who had just yesterday tripped him in the yard, and laughed at how clumsy he was. “That’s what happens when you shirk training to play with a half-blind old man,” she had said, low enough that only Gen could hear.

Let her come just a little closer, Gen prayed. It would be more fun than anything.

Gen was patient. He readied himself to spring, and watched as Agape threw the ball a little to hard and giggled as it soared over Hegite’s head, bouncing and rolling past Gen’s leaf pile.

Hegite huffed at her sister, and marched around the bushes to retrieve the ball.

Closer. Closer.

Close enough.

Gen popped up, flinging leaves into the air and onto Hegite. She shrieked–the others shrieked, too. And Hegite jumped a clear in the air with surprise, and fell onto her backside.

Laughing and victorious, Gen was halfway back to the palace before the others had collected themselves. Hegite shouted his name and threats, and he although he didn’t look over his shoulder to check, he was sure she was giving chance. It didn’t matter. Gen was faster and light with glee. He was into the palace and away, grinning at the memory of the look on their faces.

[creepingsharia]

Islamic call to sharia prayer broadcast from mosques in cities across southern California

The Islamization of America is well under way. And it will only get worse with open borders. Future generations - particularly girls and women - will ask why you sat idly by and allowed this to happen. VIDEO HERE.

PS: The mosque highlighted in this LA Times puff piece is linked to the 9/11 attacks. Read: Saudi at Culver City mosque linked to 9/11 attack

The call to prayer rang out at 7:49 on a Saturday evening as the sky glowed pink from the setting sun.

Mahmood Nadvi, standing on the rooftop, delivers the adhan, the Islamic call to prayer, at King Fahad Mosque in Culver City. Amid the pandemic lockdown, many mosques in Southern California got permission from local authorities to broadcast the adhan during Ramadan, the holiest month in the Islamic calendar. (Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

Women in hijabs and masks gazed up at the mosque as the Arabic hymn floated down:

Allah is the greatest.

I bear witness that there is none worthy of worship except Allah.

Mahmood Nadvi stood on King Fahad Mosque’s roof, 60 feet above the street, nearly level with the palm trees, singing into a handheld microphone.

For over 1,000 years, Muslims have relied on the human voice to call the faithful to prayer. It’s become tradition that wherever a mosque is built, there is a place for the muezzin, or prayer caller, said Aslam Abdullah, a Muslim scholar based in San Bernardino.

While the adhan echoes five times a day in Islamic countries, like a Roman Catholic church bell signaling Mass, it is unusual to hear the adhan publicly broadcast in the U.S., where it is more likely to be heard in Hollywood movies.

People stop in their tracks to watch Mahmood Nadvi deliver the Islamic call to prayer from the roof of King Fahad Mosque in Culver City. (Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

Which is what made the scene in a Culver City neighborhood, near a gun shop and a church with a sign reading “Jesus Saves,” unusual. Even historic. Like the life-altering pandemic that inspired it from here to Minnesota to New Jersey during Ramadan, the holiest month in the Islamic calendar.

In extraordinary times, when Muslims are unable to break the fast and pray together because COVID-19 has forced mosques to close — as it has some churches and other places of worship — the adhan has brought comfort. Cities across Southern California, including Redlands, Fontana, Rancho Cucamonga and Claremont, have allowed mosques to broadcast the call to prayer publicly.

Outside the Culver City mosque, some pedestrians stopped in their tracks when they first heard the adhan, seemingly surprised. This was something new, and it was not altogether clear how it would be received — as with many things Muslim in the U.S.

Mahmood Nadvi uses a handheld microphone to share the adhan, the Islamic call to prayer, at King Fahad Mosque in Culver City.(Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

“It is indeed historical,” said Abdullah, who in the last week has heard the call to prayer broadcast in Redlands and Fontana. “It’s more than tolerance, it is our acceptance, I think. That’s a remarkable thing that this country has shown once again.”

But in Culver City, the call to prayer did not go unchallenged for long.

After four days, on May 18, the city’s police department revoked the amplified noise permit, citing people congregating at the mosque in violation of the county health order, as well as “numerous loud noise complaints from area residents.”

“We have had and will continue to have a great relationship with mosque leadership,” said Capt. Jason Sims with the Culver City Police Department. “We are certainly happy to help with facilitating any type of service that is not in violation of county health orders.”

Three days later, the city changed course again, reinstating the permit on the condition that the mosque lower the volume.

Meanwhile, on the Nextdoor social networking app, debates raged between neighbors.

“I’m glad I don’t live near there,” someone commented, spawning a string of responses.

“There are a lot of bitter racists in CC,” someone replied.

“What has a Muslim ever done to you?” one user said.

“Make me unhappy,” another responded.

Another commenter added: “You should ask people from Europe what they think about the muslims? I don’t think you get many people cheering them on.”

Two women in hijabs and masks gaze up as the adhan, or Islamic call to prayer, floats down from the roof of King Fahad Mosque in Culver City.(Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

Across the U.S., the closure of churches has prompted pushback, with some filing lawsuits and a few defying stay-at-home orders.

The U.S. Justice Department warned in a letter Tuesday that the measures Gov. Gavin Newsom enacted to slow the spread of the coronavirus and his plans to unwind them might discriminate against religious groups and violate their constitutional rights.

More than 1,200 pastors have vowed to hold in-person services on May 31, Pentecost Sunday. On Friday, Trump declared houses of worship “essential” and called on governors to allow their reopening.

In the U.S., the question of whether to broadcast the adhan publicly has been controversial over the years. When the City Council in Hamtramck, Mich., approved the local mosque’s request to amplify the call to prayer in 2004, it sparked anger in the town.

“With so much going on in the world with terrorism, people are afraid maybe they’ll be saying things [in Arabic] that we don’t understand,” a bakery manager said at the time.

Despite the initial controversy, the adhan continues being broadcast there today.

Many mosques across Southern California got permission from local authorities to broadcast the adhan, or call to prayer, which is unusual to hear publicly broadcast in the U.S. Above, a small group gathers outside King Fahad Mosque in Culver City. (Irfan Khan / Los Angeles Times)

In 2015, Duke University called off its plan to sound the prayer call from the chapel’s 210-foot bell tower for the first time, in the face of anti-Islamic tirades on social media and concerns about security.

So this year, when mosques received permits to share the adhan through Ramadan, starting in Minnesota, some worried about what could happen.

“I’m very excited but ... deep inside I also have some concerns. Not because it’s not the right thing to do,” said Hussam Ayloush, executive director of the Los Angeles chapter of the Council on American-Islamic Relations. “But because we also still have people in our country who harbor prejudice towards Muslims or people who are not part of the majority.”

Last week, in Fontana, Ar-Rahman Islamic Center began broadcasting the adhan four times a day — omitting the earliest one around 4:30 a.m.

The only issue the center had, director Juma Darwish said, is that the prayer caller was too loud and actually broke the speaker outside — which the center is working to fix. The mosque has no end date on the broadcast.

“We’re just going to keep doing it until we feel any neighbor has discomfort with it,” Darwish said. “We’re not going to do it if a neighbor complains about it.”

Rauf Patel, director of King Fahad Mosque, and his wife, Anisa, were excited when they heard that the adhan was being publicly broadcast in Minnesota. Anisa convinced her husband to request a permit to do the same in Culver City.

In his letter to the city, Patel said broadcasting the adhan “would be a beacon of light in this trying time.” The mosque has been closed since March.

“During these difficult and unusual times of COVID-19, staying away from the mosque during our holy month has been challenging,” Patel wrote. “Being able to call to prayer out loud ... would not only lift all of our spirits, but also bring back [a] sense of our unity in our community and get us through our last few days of Ramadan.”

Soon after, the Police Department issued the permit. It would last until May 22, the day before the start of Eid al-Fitr, a celebration known as feast of the fast-breaking.

On the first day, May 14, Ahson Syed, the mosque’s religious director, stepped on overturned milk crates and up three steps that allowed him to peer over the roof at the people gathered below.

In Saudi Arabia, Syed was accustomed to hearing the call to prayer five times a day. In the U.S., he typically heard it only inside of mosques or community centers —- certainly not from the rooftops, broadcast across neighborhoods.

That evening, he was the first one to recite the adhan publicly, his voice ringing with emotion over the black loudspeaker. Half of the attendees that night were crying.

On the third night, Suzan Alrayes stood below with her 3- and 5-year-old sons, her husband and her parents. It had been a hard Ramadan, one in which she struggled to explain to her children the lurking, viral danger that prevented them from coming to the mosque.

That Saturday evening, there were plastic containers of dates and water bottles for attendees to take for the breaking of the fast.

The first time Alrayes heard the adhan from the roof of the mosque, she said, “it just gave me goose bumps.”

“I can’t even describe the feeling,” she said. “We’re not used to having the adhan in public in the United States.”

She just hoped, she said, that it wouldn’t disturb the non-Muslim community in any way.

“That would be my only concern,” Alrayes said.

Neighbors living around the mosque were surprised to hear the permit had been revoked, albeit briefly. Many of them said they couldn’t hear it, even though they live nearby.

The mosque, one resident, Liliana Cruz said, is “very much a part of the neighborhood.” She wondered about who would call to complain about the noise, calling them “jerks.”

“I don’t know who those people are,” Cruz said. “I don’t even want to know them.”

Another neighbor, who only gave his name as Eddie, said he wished neighbors had been given a heads-up about the call to prayer. He has stereo equipment, but said he could still hear the adhan from his home, which stands in view of the blue and white minaret.

“If you don’t have anything to avoid it, it can be a form of distress,” he said.

Debra Sugarman, who has lived in the city for 10 years, said she’s spent a lot of time in the Middle East and enjoys hearing the call to prayer. Sugarman, who lives a few blocks from the mosque, said she strained to hear the adhan the first few nights. She wished, she said, that it had been louder.

“It’s Ramadan,” Sugarman said. “They should be allowed to practice their religion.”

[babsxkean]

the shadows & monsters

The house was awake, the shadows and monsters The hallways, they echoed and groaned

I sat alone, in bed till the morning I'm crying, "They're coming for me" And I tried to hold these secrets inside me My mind's like a deadly disease

I'm bigger than my body I'm colder than this home

who: barbara kean-gordon, featuring mentions of everett and elizabeth kean, barbara gordon & jim gordon

when: 1982 - present day

where: the kean family mansion, gotham

barbara kean reflects on her childhood as she visits her parents on june 6, 2020.

tw: murder, abuse, body image 

It started when she was five years old.

My little piggy, her mother would say, if Babs finished her dessert, or if she caught the housekeeper making Babs a snack. She would pet Barbara’s hair and smile at her when she said it, but there was a glint in her eye that many children know perfectly well. 

“You messed up, but I’m going to be patient,” that glint said. “You made a mistake. You know what you did, don’t you? You know it was wrong.”

And sometimes, when Babs left a few bites of mashed potatoes or pasta, or another empty carb, she would catch her mother smiling at her in a different way. A way that she saw far less often, one that meant Elizabeth Kean was pleased with her. 

“Why don’t we go horseback riding tomorrow, Barbara?” Elizabeth would say then. Or shopping, or out for tea -- something that Babs would enjoy. On these outings, it was usually just Babs and Elizabeth, and her mother would hold her hand, and pay attention to her, and make her feel like she was, for once, a good girl.

But those afternoons never seemed to last very long. More often than not, by the time they got home, Babs had done something to make her mother angry: she had raised her voice in public, or cried when she tripped on the sidewalk in front of a store and scraped her knee, or spilled something on her dress. It was almost always down to Babs making a scene -- being an embarrassment, as Elizabeth would say, bent low so she could hiss the word in Barbara’s ear.

The punishment was severe and usually bizarre. Elizabeth would take away Babs’ posters, leaving her walls blank, a stark reminder that she didn’t deserve nice things, fun things that made her happy. She would discuss Babs with Everett as if Babs wasn’t even there, telling him what a disappointment she had been that day. After the nanny had tucked Babs in, Elizabeth would come in and kneel by the side of Barbara’s bed.

“You want us to love you, don’t you, darling?” she’d ask, and of course, Babs would nod. “We want to love you, too. But you make it very hard sometimes.” 

At this, Babs would nod again. She was sure, even at that age, that she was difficult to love. Why else would things be this way? Her parents were smart and elegant and it seemed like they always knew the right thing to do, the right thing to say. Clearly the fault lay with her.

She tried so very hard to please them. Even by the time she realized that her home was no home, her family no family, she couldn’t shake the feeling that it was all her fault. Her parents treated her that way because she didn’t deserve for things to be better. If she was the perfect daughter they wanted, they would love her -- but she wasn’t, so they didn’t.

Once, when she was twelve, her mother took her by the shoulders and set her back to get a better look at her. “We better put Barbara on a diet, don’t you think, Everett?” she said. “She’s getting a little hippy.”

Her father, who had been sitting in an armchair reading a newspaper at the time, merely hummed in agreement. “Whatever you think is best, dear.”

Whatever Elizabeth Kean thought was best, it certainly wasn’t her daughter. Babs attended Gotham Academy and was near the top of her class -- but she wasn’t at the top. She was on student council and the cheerleading squad -- but she wasn’t the president, or the captain. She was pretty and popular -- but there was always a girl who was prettier, who was more popular. No matter how hard Babs tried, no matter what she accomplished, it wasn’t the best, and so it didn’t matter.

Of course, in the public eye, the Keans couldn’t get enough of their daughter. The three of them attended God knows how many galas and charity events and parties together, and Elizabeth would smile with her arm around Barbara’s shoulders as one fellow socialite or another would talk about how beautiful Babs was, how accomplished. 

She was a prize then, a pet to be trotted out so everyone could see what a wonderful job Elizabeth and Everett Kean were doing raising their daughter. It wasn’t love, she knew that -- but it was the closest thing she had. And she lapped it up, even while she resented them for it.

And then when Barbara turned fifteen, she found someone who showed her what love actually was. 

(There is an irony, she supposes now, that she lost all of them within such a short space -- the people who were supposed to love her, and never did; and the first person to love her for exactly who she was.)

Finding Jim was like having a veil pulled away from her eyes. She had always been able to see, but now, her vision was so much clearer. It wasn’t as though he magically taught her to love herself, or that he erased all the self-doubt and self-loathing she had carried with her for so long; but for the first time, she realized life didn’t have to be that way. There was a different path she could take, one toward something better.

She didn’t expect Elizabeth to support her when she told her about the baby -- she wasn’t surprised that Elizabeth wanted her to end the pregnancy, or that she kicked her out when she refused to do so. And yet she still cried, as any heartbroken child would when a parent hurts them. As if Elizabeth had ever done anything but hurt her. 

Even when she left home, it was never really over. She and Jim would bring their daughter to see her grandparents sporadically -- Christmas of 1997, of 2003, of 2009, an erratic spattering of birthdays and other holidays. And every time Elizabeth saw Babs, she would smile, though it never reached her eyes, and she would clasp Barbara’s hands tightly in her own.

“What a beautiful dress that is, dear,” she said, on the last night Barbara ever saw her alive. “You almost look thin.”

She had left the gala because she had noticed her parents were gone, and she knew her daughter would want to know if they were okay. She told herself that any love she had once held for her parents was long gone, because it was easier that way; she didn’t do this out of any concern originating in her own heart. Or at least she insisted during the internal argument that took place as she drove to her old home.

The last thing she can clearly recall is letting herself in with the key that still lived on her keychain. She stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind her. After that, her recollection comes in bits and pieces, like autumn leaves caught in the eddying swirl of a river, flashing by too quickly for her to really get a good look.

The vast living room, empty but for the three of them, lit only by the moon. 

The curtains framing the French doors, billowing in the June breeze.

Barbara’s own hand, gripping the doorframe to hold herself upright. 

Her mother, slumped against her father.

Everett’s head bowed, as if he was asleep. Or praying.

Elizabeth had one hand turned up, like she was reaching out for Babs. 

They were dead. They had, in the interest of being specific, been murdered. 

She can’t remember precisely what happened next. Maybe Babs had started to scream at this point, or maybe she had rushed to them, as if a closer look would somehow help clarify or rectify the situation. Or maybe she just stood there, frozen, silent, waiting for the grief that never came. 

There was shock, yes. Horror, even, at the murder of two human beings -- but it was a distant sort of horror, the type you would feel if you heard about a particularly violent crime on the news. It was terrible, tragic, that anyone had lost their lives this way. But it didn’t feel connected to her at all. 

Her thoughts and feelings and memories come back to her at the police station, and now, she really wishes it hadn’t. It would have been better to remain numb.