#senseless jabbering

[jelazakazone]

Jesper and Wylan

I know I’m super late to this party, but I cannot stop thinking about Wesper. First of all, is there a cuter couple? Don’t answer that. 

Second of all, I just love the dynamic between them. Jesper can’t remember Wylan at all at first. Wylan seemingly never forgot Jesper. And then, bam, they just work together so well -- not just as a couple. 

Has anyone dissected the scene in Rollins’ conservatory? Because look at Jesper, going for his gun (his first instinct is his sharp shooting skills) and then Wylan just brings the energy down and rolls with his sharp ass wit. Good thing he is just bristling with tools because they are now piano tuners. lmao. 

(screenshot from ep 3 of shadow and bone. Jesper is on the left, Wylan is on the right. Jesper is looking down at Wylan, who is looking forward and holding his jacket open to reveal a vest full of tools.) 

[anxious-lee]

Ask || Hazbin Tickle Fic ||

A/N: what can I say? they inspire me. you know what else inspires me? the agonizing lack of content there is for them 💀

Ship: Huskerdust

No beta, we die for our craft

Word count: 1,720

------

One wouldn't typically think of obnoxious behavior as out of character for Angel Dust, but this was a tad excessive. In a way that spells out exactly what he wants, if you know what to look for.

Angel had a very particular set of needs, some being more overt than others, but one facet of his desire was not known to many. Ironically, his incessant jabber of licking holes and getting punished weren't nearly as vulnerable as this information was. He never told his nightly flings, he never told Valentino, and he rarely became close enough to anyone to be able to share.

Angel Dust, the world-renowned porn star, loved to be tickled.

Now, some might say this could very easily fit into his menagerie of BDSM kinks. But that's what was so humiliating. It wasn't a kink. It wasn't sexy. It was romantic. Even downright fond.

His need would be fulfilled from time to time as partners or clients sought playfulness, but he wouldn't bring up his appreciation of it. Merely went along with and pretended to hate it. How far that was from the truth.

The obvious downside to this, of course, is that no one is available to satisfy your lee moods. Like today, for example.

The minute Angel woke up, he knew today was going to be one of those days.

The thoughts were driving him mad. He needed someone to hold him and touch him and take away his control in a way that had nothing to do with pain or power. It was about trust and love and sharing and fucking christ, does he sound like a hippie.

The thought of telling Husk did cross his mind, seeing as how they were now a month into their relationship, but he quickly banished it to where all the other scary thoughts go. Surely, he would laugh at him or look at him with disgust.

He couldn't risk it this time.

Not with Husk.

Not with him.

Fortunately, there was an option B. You see, he already loved to get on people's nerves, and that happened to be the most successful way to get tickled. As retribution.

The hotel guests, of course, didn't pick up on Angel's different behavior. They merely gave him a smirk or an eye-roll, but nothing more. Except, of course, Husk.

----

Angel sauntered over to the bar counter where his pussycat was busy at work polishing bottles.

"Mornin', Whiskers. Did ya dream of me?" Angel said, batting his eyelashes.

Husk chuckled. "Yeah, I did. It was the noisiest dream of my afterlife."

Angel gasped in mock offense and pouted. "I thought you liked our little chats!"

"I do when I'm not working. Just sit tight until I'm on my break, we can go cuddle as much as you want then, okay?"

"But that's sooo long from now!"

Returning to his bottles, Husk half-turned away from Angel, who was growing antsy.

He waited a couple of moments, then very swiftly poked his bartender in the arm.

"Baby, I can't talk right now, I'm busy."

Another poke.

"Fuck, can't you wait 5 minutes?" Husk sighed with a hint of annoyance.

It seemed to be working. One more push should send him over the edge.

Angel plucked the rag out of Husk's paw and held it out of his reach.

Husk finally turned to face his boyfriend.

Was this it? Was he gonna snap and tickle him senseless for pestering him?

The cat leaned forward, grabbed the rag, and went back to his task after giving Angel a tired glare.

It was obvious to the spider that his lover wouldn't bite. Defeated, he left the bar to find something else to distract himself with.

----

It was a few hours later when Angel found himself cuddled up next to Husk watching a movie. It was some crime boss flick, something-or-other. To be perfectly honest, he wasn't paying much attention to it. The incessant thoughts of laughter and smiles spun 'round his head, keeping his focus off of the gunfight happening on-screen.

On impulse, Angel started playing with Husk's ears, plucking and pulling and flicking in any way he could to get a rise out of him.

"What the- stop! I'm trying to watch." The cat said.

"I ain't doing nothing~"

Next, Angel gave a teensy little push to Husk's tophat, just enough to put it off-center.

"If you're that bored, why'd you pick this movie?" Was the reply.

"Who said I was bored? I'm very entertained," Angel said.

And finally, he twirled his finger around the tail beside him like a spaghetti noodle and gave it a tug.

That seemed to do the trick. Husk's face whipped to meet Angel's.

"What is going on with you? You've been pressing my buttons all day. What's the matter? You feeling friskier than normal or somethin'?" Husk was confused, and annoyed certainly, but more than anything, curious. This wasn't typical Angel Dust behavior. This was a cry for help. In regards to what, he had no idea.

Angel certainly wasn't giving him any help. "I don't know what you're talking about," he quipped with a smile tugging at his lips.

Husk watched him for a moment, then seemingly gave up and returned to cuddling in front of the movie.

It only frustrated Angel more. What was with this guy?! It didn't normally take THIS much effort to instigate a good tickle fight! And the cuddling made everything worse. Like waving a bone in front of a dog. He was given just enough touch to drive him crazy but not enough to satisfy his hunger.

----

Several days had gone by, and Angel's lee mood persisted, and Husk still wasn't taking the bait. The spider began to wonder if he would ever get tickled again at this rate.

One night, the two sinners were sitting in bed together, being on their phones or reading. It was quiet nights in with each other like these that they treasured more than anything.

Angel had lost almost all hope of actually getting tickled. No matter what he tried to get Husk's goat, nothing worked. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try.

Husk was so enraptured by the book in front of him that he didn't notice the mischievous look creeping onto his boyfriend's face.

Angel snatched the book out from Husk's nose and dangled it in front of him. "Why would you want to look at some ol' book when you could be looking at meee~?"

Husk gave the usual huff and eye-roll.

Angel waited for a moment, then set the book aside in order to sprawl across Husk's lap with his hands supporting his head.

"What's the matter, Whiskers?" He emphasized the provoking nickname. "Am I botherin' ya?"

Angel pursed his lips and gave the kitty's nose a boop.

For a moment, it was silent as Husk looked down at his lover in what looked to be...

An epiphany.

Then came the chuckle.

"You know, if you wanted it so bad, you coulda just asked," Husk sultry said.

What?

What did that-

Angel didn't have time to finish the thought before Husk's claws were dancing nimbly on his sides. He squealed in startlement, and the giggles came flowing out. As much as his body wanted to worm and wriggle away from the touch, his heart was exactly where it wanted to be. Where he needed to be. But what Husk had said-

"Whahat does thahahat mehehean?!" The spider queried.

"Don't act like you haven't been trying to provoke me into ticklin' you this whole time. Honestly, it all seems kinda obvious now," Husk laughed, "Can't believe I didn't piece it together sooner."

Wait, he knew?!

Abort, abort, abort!

"I dohont know whahahat you're tahahalking abohohout!"

"Relax, I ain't judging," Husk assured warmly, "I've heard of far stranger things than a pesky little brat who wants to relinquish control every now and then. 'Sides, I can't say it's not adorable." His voice took on a more teasing tone at that last statement.

And Angel noticed it.

His face began burning hellfire red as the claws at his sides still scribbled furiously, and his giggles now elevated to laughter.

"Ihihit's NOHOHOT!" Angel cried indignantly.

"Uh huh. And what do you call this?" Husk darted his hands up to the spider's neck and scritched and scratched into every nook and cranny he could reach.

Glass could shatter at the pitch Angel shrieked. His chortles returned to snickers and giggles as he tried to invert his head into his body like a turtle. What's more, he even began to 'tee-hee'. Like a coquettish little school girl. How humiliating.

"Seems pretty cute to me~," Husk cooed with a saccharine smile.

Angel couldn't tell if he loved it or hated it.

"I've never seen this smile on you before! Maybe I should tickle you all the time."

Definitely loved it.

Husk ran his claws down from his neck to his shoulders all the way down to his underarms.

The spider's arms snapped with the strength of a bear trap. He screeched with all his might and began to cackle. This was the most pleasant hell he's ever been in! His face-splitting grin wasn't just from all the laughing. He hoped Husk knew that.

The cat in question jumped at the loud noise. "Woah! Didn't realize this was a bad spot. You okay down there?" His fingers slowing for a second.

Angel could not nod fast enough.

Husk could feel his icy heart melting. Christ, the things this boy did to him. He'd keep this up all night if it kept Angel happy and free and forgetful of his troubles.

"Alright, just let me know when you've had enough," and with that, Husk tickled his pits harder than he did before, "But next time, just ask for this instead of purposely getting on my nerves. I'd rather just give you the love without the headache, okay baby?"

And he did.

It wasn't easy for Angel, but part of this new dynamic was learning to trust each other, hoping that the other would catch them when they fell. Every moment they spent together proved that they would.

But for now, all that was left was Angel's blissful laughter, Husk's light-hearted teases, and five nosy tennants listening in from beyond the door.

-------

The more tickle scenes I write, the harder it is to think of new things to say lol 😅

Thank you all so much for the kind feedback, you guys are why I write ❤️

[instruth]

Oh! What A City So Lack Of Pity

Oh! Bitter urban, the city slums

Daily bread of bits and crumbs

As day is day, and night is night

A born-blind misses not a sight

Living becomes an opportunity

To ignore deprivation without pity

Be quick, to never miss a chance

Game of chess with just a glance

Overcrowding makes good company

Measure poverty by counts of agony

Picking pebbles beside a dusty road

Deaths lift burden off a heavy load

Polluted air roams the foul gutter

Senseless attempts fail to utter

Running errands on shoeless feet

Taking shortcuts by the back streets

No time to idle, true bums are lazy

Be busy as bees, flitting in a frenzy

Drugs and ales deceive the whimsical

Help the fearful turn brave, tyrannical

Dreaming creates jabbers and chatters

Professional robbers and keen rioters

Bamboo beats to tapping vocalists

Unrhetorical drunks turn moralists

Undeserving as raw meat on windows

Siphoning funds for deserving widows

Shrinking from heartfelt acts of loyalty

Abort prim and proper acts of royalty

Stretching fullest from feet to finger tips

Add mind and soul, through burning lips

who turns a blind eye

what can benefit oneself

only for the wealth

©Johnny J P Lee

08 December 2024

A HAIBUN POEM:

(Gogyoshiren30 + Haiku 5-7-5)

Photo Credit J. P. Lee

[writer59january13]

Come post presidential election 2024… heil to the Wharton chief firebrand -

more worrisome than an ovarian cyst

every race, religion, nationality, gender, creed, et cetera with impunity dissed brigand able, eager, ready and willing to punch contenders throwing his fist against rival – one nasty and brutish soul after reading, you get the gist how dictator wannabe lurching with tremendous oaf fish shill

blatantly, flagrantly, and glad-handedly zapping usurping power, breeding dissent soundlessly slithering, spreading vile disinformation onto social media platforms targeting undecided electorates analogous to casting dark shadows across the edge of night hissed tory revoked eclipsed loosing unfettered horrors.

Das boot trump out-

(oust him to) Waterloo

Eagerly awaits you

the bully in the white house and true.

Whit that, yawl get a lucky strike if ya keep yar show

as my Reince prescience foretells this poe

fur one quarter off hiz terminal daze starring down

(with bad medicine), thee ole scarecrow.

╰☆╮ Thankfully, I'm not a royal heir

to the power monger hoarders╰☆╮

which comb hen might handy when borders

hermetically sealed - per heil hit lore

caw zing a furor with his stark jumbo je lay bean orders.

I don't wanna don a duck dynasty outfit,

or that of a woodchucker but...holy mother f*cker

and kudos to any heckler,

who deems steam roller trump as a mean trucker.

Thus - for the umpteenth attempt to post

without any intention to induce rabid reaction to roast

my ass (albeit scrawny just to be cheeky),

I dick rye America will burn like toast the legacy of democracy transparent as a ghost

if....mister money bags - to the finish line

of presidential electorate, he doth coast.

My anti Donald trump screed continues tut try

tip picture conjure pixelated stress less or more

WE MUST DO MORE THAN YODEL LOUD: (and preach to the choir)

out....out...get...life not death, he seems to ab hoar

ding dong Donald drake...out...of...here...

without...his security detail or...coat....of...

(Emperor wears no clothes) armor.

I will not condone political measures

from that mane lion kapo -

jabbering indiscretion.

Herewith follows a poem (concatenated with above lines) I dashed off in a huff - to douse

dat auld don trumpeting joie de vivre

fin de siecle utopia of yesteryear

puffin sewerage bilge - strike n horror n ma eyes -

for opinion aye espouse

based on scary political fracas and looming nightmare -

whar mo' will grouse

to obstruct trump access to black keys to white house

that a looming presidential nightmare

doth not become real - gruff louse

he will crush sacred freedoms,

whence western civilization goes off bluff

analogous to a rabid cat terminating

the life of more'n Mickey Mouse.

DUCK AFTER DUMP - PING THE DON -

a pipe dream that will never take shape.

Air ring ma thoughts - no matter aye ham

juiced one twenty first century mwm ape

serves as genuine s cape

to fly (during pitch black hours of night)

on his witch a ma call it...

to escape temporarily the cares and concerns

of an uncertain world,

where as an outlier from madding crowd I gape

at the sheer insanity

trumpeting strumpets donning an innate

prejudice and senselessness purr

blind faith toward self avowed demigod --

seize whore viz Caesar - forever linkedin with maxim

Veni, Vedi, Vici - idolized statecraft motto

Trump perfects with his witch's brew he doth stir

his hair coiffed and puffed like it whir

wind blown kickstart ting mobs to stir

paying Deep Purple bodyguards to evict ruckus-causing murmur

oh...how the masses will let this country

go to hell in handbasket -

blithely purging the Iran Nuclear Deal,

The Paris Climate Agreement

plus rack up stratospheric global debt

cause zing this one measly mortal male to fret

Boom, boom, boom gotta get get

that totalitarian rule will force every man,

woman and child to march....het

two...three...four, while the billionaire

turns a third blind eye speeds away in his foo fighter jet

argh...heavens to Betsy Ross,

Condoleezza Rice, Nancy Reagan,

Barenaked Ladies, and Goo Goo Dolls,

how did the fickle finger of fate let

this pompous ass allergic to law and order sowing, loosing, and fomenting insurrection crowdsourcing, wherever anarchy met

vacuums up majority votes across world wide quartered, (tattered), and webbed net

to finagle vox populi,

and groom hooligan nasty ruffian thugs

with smashed face as his smart pet

GoLong Daddy story short -

pondering my rental circumstance

will be upended if this ret

chad, evil, googly-eyed, gastronomic,

narcissistic bullish Don will set

the spark for world war three -

via gone ah re: ha...ha...ha...to all vet

tureens within the sea to shining cyber sea

American crucible melting pot -

with verbal whips,

whose invective blast sucker punching

DACA, and those

who strain to uphold economic backbone,

he does NOT STOP to undermine stoop labor,

which anonymous backs, he bloodies via twittering whetstone

unless....Katrina and the Waves, superman

or the Sabrina can oust him yet.

[marireal-de]

Whilst being out for a walk this picture was taken. I sometimes need to flee from the noise, the vanity fair and the stress and pressure. I am here in my little cave now. No one bothering me. Reflecting. A person so dear that knowingly, unknowingly pushed me away a few days ago. These indiferent signals - I got them so wrong. It hurts. All these people, all this senseless jabber. I am so incredibly tired of it all. For in the end there is no one to rely on. A lesson to learn the hard way. But I won't complain. I just get up again, dry my tears and move on.

[felixferitas]

felix's lips thin in annoyance, brows furrowing. joe's adamant on continuing to antagonize him, it seemed, but at least felix can be thankful he's not being disgustingly crass anymore. doubtful it'll last, but for the moment he can be appreciative. he glares at joe over his flat white, taking a sip as he braces himself for more senseless jabber. but to his dismay, joe's actually making sense. in a rare moment of clarity, felix recognizes that he might have been needlessly harsh on joe. he probably doesn't know any better, and it's not like felix had much notice about his presence at saltburn over the course of the summer, otherwise felix might've tried to clue him in on the necessary ettiquette to blend in with his family. something to help him not stick out like a sore thumb. "doesn't matter. maybe i am taking this more seriously, more personally than i ought to. but whatever, that says more about me than it does about you. you are, after all, only staying at my ancestral home." felix offers him a polite close-lipped smile. shifting tactics, opting to kill him with kindness — or at least lull joe into a false sense of security. it really was less about joe and perhaps more about felix. he always feels stressed out and overwhelmed whenever he returns from a term at oxford, when really one would think it'd be the other way around. "just forget it. and consider yourself lucky, i suppose, because if mum's not scrutinizing you she'll be focusing on me." he takes another sip of his flatwhite before setting it down, fingers absentmindedly stroking over his chin. good — his stubble hasn't grown back yet.

felix's blatant irritation is largely amusing — the bristling more entertaining than it is insulting — but the nagging (and it is nagging) strains each scoff that bubbles to the surface. one would think that without a family and without any solid shelter, that there'd be nothing and no one to pressure him; educate him with a pointed index and a stern look. venetia doesn't rise to the occasion — and although her father seems less enthused by joe's presence, even he cares little to shoulder responsibility. that felix does, is laughable. "jesus — who else is reelin' o'er this huh? yer' mom put you up to this? or this is all you?" his shoulders are propped up, roughened palms sat against the counter as he smoulders, creased brows angled in mild annoyance. "must be all you, 'cause no one else gives a shit. venetia doesn't. yer' parents don't. you really care this much 'bout — feckin' — stiff behaviour? bein' all — proper n' shit?"

[timetocrybois]

WELCOME TO SAILEM

THE HELSMIT BOATEM CREW!!

Hels!MumboJumbo: SilverJabber

-Mumbo Jumbo: senseless language

-Jibber Jabber: rapid and excited speech that is difficult to understand

-name based on Silver tongued and Jibber Jabber

-passionate evil inventor

-confident and egotistical

Hels!GoodTimesWithScar: BadTimesWithScar

-cam account name

-an evil wizard communist

-he’s a pirate kind of lad

-as a cam account, he has a limited access to the Hermitcraft server, though it is not easy

Hels!ImpulseSV: FalterVS

-Impulse: sudden prompting to action

-Falter: to hesitate or waver in action

-Jack of all trades

-an odd jobs man

Hels!PearlescentMoon: PearlescentSun (Sol)

-name based on the Norse sun goddess Sól

-light magic enchanter

-newest enemy of Hati, Rendog’s counterpart

Hels!Grian: Mani

-Grian: Irish sun deity

-name based on the Norse moon god Màni

-tradesmen (he’s a guy who’s got what you need)

-sly little neat freak

- long-term enemy of Hati

[wrctings]

just some (slightly angsty) eruri fluff for you all because i miss them 🥰

“And so when I snapped my fingers right beside him, I got his attention. Actually got it! I’ve never had a titan stare at me like this, so intensely,” Hanji’s eyes sparkled, aglow with both irrepressible enthusiasm and the warm reflection from the room’s candle light, her fingers eagerly curled around the handle of a cup. “If only you’d seen it... I think he may have finally recognised me, given all the time we spent together... But we have to wait and see. And there’s also that plant we brought back from the last expedition! It’s growing! We put it in a more humid zone, like where we found it, and it’s actually growing.”

Levi had always known Hanji was a little excessive. Well, really excessive for the most part - especially when she’d get into one of her endless tirades about titans, marvelling over their monstrous abilities and curious shape and reflexes and whatnot... Sometimes, it drove Levi up to the wall to watch their scientist go into raptures over the senseless beasts that had crushed or torn apart so many of their fallen comrades. Though, to be fair, he could hardly blame Hanji - she was with them, after all; among the first ranks during expeditions, flanked by the officers’ side. That titan-loving thing was just a quirk of hers, just like Levi’s own cleaning thing, which he suspected many of their subordinates looked upon as a curious and slightly frightening obsession.

So, more often than not, Levi patiently kept his mouth shut, listening to Hanji’s passionate rants and picking out the useful information only, letting the rest slide into oblivion. But tonight, Levi’s usual self-control act had been getting pushed toward its limit, a disgruntled frown hidden behind his cup of tea. And the reason? Always the same golden-haired bastard.

White sleeves rolled up to the elbows, torso leaning over the wooden table, his blue eyes bright and animated by the same radiant shimmer of curiosity as in Hanji’s gaze, Erwin was hanging onto his friend’s every word.

“So, if some plants can only survive in a special kind of climate, the outside world must be...”

“Full of plants yet unknown to us! And of landscapes we can’t even imagine! And if that plant we brought back can only thrive in a wet kind of environment...”

“...Maybe there’s a large pool of water somewhere further away, beyond the limit we stopped at last time!”

Levi cursed Hanji from the bottom of his heart. Erwin’s entire attention seemed to be focused on the subject, blind to the rest of the room.

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, we’re not quite sure of anything yet,” Moblit put his hands up with a sheepish smile, cooling off some of Hanji’s building elation. “First, let’s see how our titan and our plants fare in the upcoming weeks...”

“Our titan and our plants!” Hanji happily cried out, squeezing Moblit’s hand, cheeks burning red from excitement.

“Even if it’s only guesses, the captive titans and those plants can still provide precious information. It takes us one step closer to knowing the truth of the world,” Erwin’s hopeful and determined gaze met Hanji’s, both bound by a mutual fervour.

Levi silently watched them from the side, scowling. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t give a lesser shit about all of this - he wanted to rid the world of titans, to keep tightening until the last monster fell under their blades. Not bustle about captured titans in wonderment or waste time growing plants... In that moment, he resent their joy; joy sprung from the bloody cadavres of their comrades. Was this what they dedicated their heart for? Part of Levi knew perfectly well that, of course, all Hanji and Erwin gushed over was important to some degree. But he couldn’t quite share in their foolishness.

“Well, here’s to another step then,” Moblit raised his glass, smiling fondly when he caught a glimpse of the earnest exhilaration radiating off Hanji’s face. She did more often than not put him through the mill, but that’s also why he liked her, wasn’t it?

The other two officers followed Moblit’s lead, lifting their glasses up into the air, but before clinking them together Erwin shot a lighthearted look at Levi, raising his eyebrows as if asking the Captain to join in. With a muffled sigh, Levi shook his head reluctantly.

“Teacups aren’t meant for your drunken shit.”

He got away with a small movement of the hand, slowly shooting it upward in a way that made it seem he took part in the toast.

Erwin, Hanji, and Moblit drank on cordially, indulging in one of the rare merry celebrations they’d allow themselves to enjoy - the last expedition had been a success after all, with no casualties and only two superficially hurt soldiers! Such victories did truly raise the troops’ morale, so, in addition to the dinner feast everybody got to delight in, Erwin wanted to also congratulate the officers who had been working had on the expedition. Hence the wine. 

Only when the crepuscular haze of the night sky hovered over the barracks did the party begin to retire, tired grins and slightly dizzy heads wishing each other goodnight with remains of gaiety seeping through their lips; such a carefree, congenial time would probably be long to come again, so they had drunk from the brimming glass of furtive bliss until the very last honeyed drop dried out on their tongue. Waving Erwin and Levi goodnight, Hanji - held up by Moblit, bless his soul - stumbled around the corner of the corridor leading to her quarters, relying on the loyal shoulder that would help her get to her room safe and sound and not accidentally crash someplace else and carelessly pass out for the night. 

Much like Moblit, Levi had taken up the habit of bringing Erwin to his room after another day of exhausting work or a festive evening, watching the commander’s ever steady pace out of the corner of his attentive eye and listening to him jabber about whatever occupied his mind on that day, barely responding himself, but always paying silent attention to Erwin’s words. Although he didn’t admit it to his own self at first - he liked it. Liked having Erwin stroll beside him, his deep and slightly fatigued voice untangling the knots in Levi’s own head, keeping everything at bay but an inexplicable wave of... comfort. And, soon enough, the comfort had even turned into something more. 

“Did you enjoy the night, Levi?” Erwin inquired in his usual late-night chattery fashion, fingers already working the top buttons of his white shirt as the commander’s quarters arose in their field of vision.

The only answer he got out of Levi was a grunt, the short Captain pushing the door before them open. It slammed against the wall a little too harshly.

“Something on your mind?” Erwin persevered, trying to read the other man’s crossed features. 

“Alright.” Levi ended up conceding, a resigned sigh escaping the vexed line of his mouth. “Erwin, I can’t seem to give the slightest crap about those shitty plants.”

“Ah, Hanji may convince you they’re—” Erwin started again, smiling at what he thought was just a heedless comment of Levi’s, but the way he was interrupted soon let him guess otherwise.

“No, you don’t understand. I don’t get excited like you brats. I just... Don’t. I can’t bring myself to care about shitty glasses’ experiments. Or even... That stuff you talked about,” Levi waved his hand vaguely, hoping it was allusive enough.

A thoughtful moment’s silence passed, Erwin considering what Levi had just admitted - he began to recall now how retiring Levi had indeed seemed during tonight’s celebration, quietly grumbling by himself and even cutting short on the playful insults he would usually hand out.

“I’m sorry that you didn’t have fun tonight, Levi.”

“Feel sorry for yourself. You’re the one stuck with a killjoy of a brat,” Levi attempted a sarcastic smile, but it came out distorted by a hint of sad resignation. Ever since he and Erwin had... this - whatever it was called - Levi didn’t hold back as much as he used to anymore; something about Erwin’s kind understanding, no matter the slander ghosts clouding the Captain’s mind, put him at ease. So Levi spoke his mind.

“Sorry?”

Erwin’s reassuring arms twined around Levi’s torso, the commander’s head settling on top of his - the height difference, Levi had to admit, was convenient -, and he planted a long kiss on top of his head; the first real one of the day, after the hasty pecks he had stolen from Levi in between tasks. For Levi, those intimate hours were dreams he’d never wish to wake up from. “Why should I feel sorry, when I can’t believe my luck?”

“I’m not exactly the funniest person you can find, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“And so what? I, for one thing, think you are funny. Your dark humour may take some getting used to at first, but afterwards, you crack me up, my dear,” Erwin mused, littering Levi’s neck with sloppy kisses. “I love you.”

“You’re a terrible liar, Erwin.”

However, Levi’s heavy heart did feel lighter already; to feel Erwin’s lips on his skin, his warm hands fiddling with Levi’s uniform to help him take it off, his precious words whispered against his ear - for Levi, and Levi only, to hear and treasure and greedily take for himself - soothes the Captain’s unexpected rush of self-depreciation. But seeing how happy Erwin had looked while talking to Hanji and Moblit had left a painful imprint Levi struggled to erase from his memory. What if... what if he’d never make Erwin this happy?

“Levi, I don’t care that you don’t get excited over shitty plants. You and I can care about different things and still care about each other too, yeah?” Levi felt the nuzzle in his neck send shivers down his spine, another one of Erwin’s kisses mending the cracks in his heart one by one. “I know you press my shirts whenever they get too creased. You bring coffee and food to my office when I’m working too much. You take Hanji’s laundry into her room when she forgets it. You help the recruits who fall behind in training...” Erwin kept on talking, going around Levi to face him in the candlelit room, until his nose gently bumped against his, and their lips met in what Levi could only describe as solace. “The list goes on and on. These are all the things you care about. And I love you for it.”

“...It seems your sappy stuff still gets me. You shitty, sentimental brat,” Levi drowned a teary chuckle in Erwin’s chest, clutching the fabric of the commander’s uniform in his fist. Then, he retired in his cat-like fashion, starting to ondo the buttons Erwin had started to work on. “I had no idea you were fucking spying on me the entire time.”

“Your fault.” Erwin followed Levi’s lead, getting rid of his own uniform before he slipped into bed, a tired look softening his features, and loose strands of hair falling out of place upon his forehead.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Levi joined him, huddling beneath the clean and cosy bedsheets, and brushed the hair away from Erwin’s face, savouring its end-of-the-day softness between his fingers.

“It’s your fault for having such a beautiful soul.”

“A beautiful soul?” Levi scoffed gently, pressing his shoulder against Erwin’s. “Never heard anything this stupid before.”

“It’s true. You may not believe me yet, but I’ll keep doing this” Erwin took Levi’s hand in his, kissing his calloused knuckles - “and this” -, then wrist - “and this”, then forearm, “and this, until you do.”

“I’m no sap like you, so it might take a while...,” Levi murmured in return, pressing a kiss into Erwin’s neck. A beautiful soul? Never before had Levi heard such words - and never before had his heart skipped a beat like it did when they struck him.

“It’s okay,” Erwin cuddled up to Levi, not suppressing a deep contented sigh when the other man’s nails gently raked his scalp, playing with his hair. “I won’t quit.”

[n1ghtwarden]

the changeling's smile cuts worse than any blade of its' own; deep within the night warden's skin and the web of scars orin the red had left within her. she cannot look into any mirror now without remembering what was done to her. without seeing it. and where the scars of old battle wounds and failed assassination attempts had once filled minthara baenre with pride - a testament to her strength, her prowess - the new brought only shame. minthara baenre, pride of menzoberranzan, defeated - and she had not even had the grace to die in battle, nor the strength to escape. she had survived solely on orin's will; to become a toy for orin to cut and slice and shape. the shame will haunt her - so will those pale eyes, that wet slash of a mouth - until she goes to her grave.

" i will not give you the satisfaction of a death that you crave, orin. your end will not be so much of a spectacle as it will be the pity of putting down a rabid dog. " their name is a snarl on her lips; teeth bared despite the way her voice wavers with fear and bravado. minthara baenre, daughter of lolth, is not afraid. does not know the meaning of it. no, she is not afraid - she is petrified. there is no way to strike without bringing orin some twisted satisfaction; and minthara's own gut twists, bile rising in her throat - she wants orin to die screaming for the mercy minthara does not possess. wants her to feel just as small as she did - frozen with terror.

every word twists into her shattered mind; curling into the recesses of it - and her expression puckers, pinches. knife of the absolute had been a misnomer. butcher, more accurate - a thousand she'd killed before; perhaps more - never bothering to remember names and faces - but these - whenever the night warden lays her head down to rest, all she can see are their faces. all she can hear are their screams. senseless slaughter, lives wasted - all to satiate the changeling's bloodlust.

and minthara knows that feeling. she does. the thrill of it, the power of it - red and thick; copper and iron - warm. the comparison sits off kilter in her mind's eye - how many twists and turns in her path until she might have stood where orin stands now?

" cease your endless, jabbering prattle. i will no sooner be a sacrifice to your foolish god than you will meet anything but an end like any other of your kind. tell me, orin, will your precious lord favour you once i have you cowed at my feet? " her fingers close around the shafts of her flails; drawing them out - body braced - and a deep breath passes through her. " come closer - let us put his chosen to a test. "

A MANIC SMILE spread across its countenance at Minthara's threat ( no, not a threat, AN OATH ), a thrilled giggle pushing past obsidian stained lips. " Yes, yes, use your blade to cut, cut, cut away at the flesh of my neck. Let the crimson from my arteries pour down my collar until I am stained completely sticky and OH SO SWEET. Do not stop your depraved butchery until my head is completely free of my body, all that would be left would be a rotting carrion to shower you in ROT AND VISCERA as well as your victory. "

WHAT LOVELY SLAUGHTER the spiderling was capable of, Orin was so fortunate to witness it all. As the worm twisted and devoured away at the buffet which was the drow's gray matter. How SATISFIED was the worm's appetite, as well as the changeling's own appetite for destruction. So many pleading faces did Orin bare witness to before they were bashed in by Minthara's hand until their visages were naught but ground meat and chunks of bone. How lovely her slaughter was when her hand was PROPERLY GUIDED, how marvelous her massacres were indeed.

" You underestimate yourself, little spider, " Orin hissed, pointing an index finger towards the drow. " Your flesh may not sate my murder lord's VIRACIOUS APPETITE as my mind muddled bloodkin might, ohhhhh but you have served him well, " she nodded quickly as her hand curled back into a fist. " Your butchery was most wonderful to behold, the bodies you LEFT TO ROT were all savoured on Bhaal's tongue. To give your cold flesh, crawling with flies, up as a FINAL OFFERING would be most suiting !!! "

It laughed again as the wonderful image of Minthara cold and properly cut up faded from its mind. " Yes, you ARE skip, skipping to your slaughter LITTLE LAMB, and I will savour every last drop of bile and blood you have to give... "

[imjusthereforbatfam]

Never-Ending Encore, ch.5

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6

Chapter Summary: Okay, listen. Listen. Eden may have agreed to this, but are we absolutely, positively sure she needs stitches? Yes? Er… Okay. But are we, like, SURE sure or...?

Warning: swearing, blood, describing injuries, mending injuries (on a wuss) 

Also!!! Apparently, you’re not supposed to use rubbing alcohol or hydrogen peroxide on cuts cuz their chemicals are too harsh and can damage muscle tissue. I grew up using peroxide on my cuts and didn’t know you weren’t supposed to until after I’d already written the majority of this chapter, so like… don’t do this irl. I’m just lazy and using alcohol works really well for the story so blah

—

Chapter 5:

Eden leaned her head back on the low wall behind her and stared up at the clouded sky. She huffed for what felt like the hundredth time. At this rate, she was going to be completely healed before Red Hood even got back...

She took another peek at her sliced palm. The cut was about a third smaller than it had been. Would Red Hood notice? Probably. It was hard to miss.

Should she— she shuddered. Should she try to reopen it a little with her nails?

She moved her hand away, gagging at the thought.

Nope. No way. Forget that. If it was noticeable to Red Hood, she would just play it off somehow. Distract him or something. Play dumb. Cry. Whatever it took but she was not going to reopen it. It shouldn’t heal much more before he got back, anyway. He promised it would only take a few minutes for him to get what he needed and get back. And, despite feeling like she’d been sitting on this rooftop for hours, Eden knew that wasn’t true. She was just getting antsy.

She put a hand to her neck, gently moving a finger across the gash there. It was fairly long, running from the dip between her shoulder and neck down to the crook of her collar bone. The knife nicked her jugular on the way down, too. That was how she’d become so lightheaded so quickly. Even now, her shirt was still wet with all the blood she’d lost.

She was lucky her body healed the way it did. The process was by no means instant, and sometimes it was too little too late, but more often than not it was just enough to save her from unnecessary encores.

Actually, still running her finger along the jagged cut, Eden was a bit surprised. Usually, an injury like this would be far more healed by now. Yet, somehow, the cut on her neck didn’t feel any smaller than the first time she’d touched it. True, it wasn't as deep as it had been – Eden could just… tell it wasn't – but on the surface, it was mostly the same.

Was it her? Had she gained some control over this part of her power without realizing it? Maybe. Or maybe she'd just lost so much blood that replenishing it was more important than mending the rest of her body. Or maybe her body magically knew that healing too fast wasn’t a good idea this time. Or, maybe, it was just mending itself like this, like a snail trudging across a bone-dry desert, because she hadn’t eaten anything since lunchtime.

Her stomach growled on cue, confirming her suspicions. Eden groaned. Now that she wasn’t drowning in her own thoughts or missing a remarkable amount of blood, she was fully aware of her body’s needs. And, boy, did it need food.

 “Would you—”

Eden shrieked in surprise as Red Hood announced his return by swiping her hand away from her neck.

“—stop messing with that?”

“What in the—!? Where in the heck did you come from!?”

“Hell, obviously.” He knelt down in front of her, taking a small black bag off his shoulder. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Oh, of course,” she said rolling her eyes. “I thought I recognized the accent.” She smacked her forehead theatrically. 

Red Hood let out a small, amused sound as he unzipped the bag. Inside was a swath of medical supplies. He dug around a moment then pulled out a white cloth and bottle of rubbing alcohol.

Eden eyed the bottle as he unscrewed the cap. “I hear the weather’s lovely in Hell this time of year,” she continued, hiding behind the joke. “Good time for a visit.”

“Nah," he said playing along. "It’s hot as balls right now."

She chuckled. “Ain't it—” Red Hood turned to her urgently and Eden quieted.

He said nothing. 

“Um…" She shrank down a little, unnerved by his wordless stare. "Everything okay there, Mr. Hood?”

He studied her another moment then eased back. “Yeah. Sorry. You started laughing so I thought you might…” he drifted off, looking at her neck. He shook his head and went back to prepping the cloth. “How do you feel?”  

She shrugged. “Fine. Better than I was.”

“No more gagging fits?” He glanced over at her and Eden shook her head. “Good.”

She eyed the drenched cloth in his hand, thinking back to all the times she'd put alcohol on someone else’s cuts and scrapes. She’d never had to use it herself, not even when she was a kid, so she didn’t know what it felt like. All she knew was that other people often hissed or groaned when they used it. Even Nate, arguably the toughest of her semi-siblings, would wince if alcohol went on an open wound.

“Is that going on my neck?”

“Yep.”  Red Hood brought it closer.

Eden leaned away. “Is it going to hurt?”

“I mean.” He gave a half-shrug, half-nod like it was obvious. “Yeah?”

“Okay, but like…” She slunk down against the wall, growing quieter. “How bad is it gonna hurt? Like… bad or… really bad?”

Red Hood tilted his head in thought. “How’s your pain tolerance?”

"My...? Oh. Well, it's... um..."

No matter how she got hurt, Eden was always fine in the end. But in the moment? When it was actually happening to her? Or, if it was a trade, when it felt like it was happening to her?

“Not great,” she decided. But, then again, who didn’t experience excruciating pain while dying? “It’s hard to say. It might be normal but… I’m not really sure. I certainly don't like pain, if that helps.”

“Alright, better question: have you ever used alcohol to clean a cut before?"

“No,” she murmured sinking into her shoulders. “Never.”

Red Hood turned his head upward and let out a deep noise, something between a hum and a sigh. He glanced toward the little black medical bag, then down at himself, then around them. Searching for something, perhaps.

“Look—” Eden straightened herself up, drawing his attention. “Look, why don’t you… Why don’t you just do it, okay? You being all,” she made a gesture, “this is freaking me out more. Just throw it on there and if it hurts, then—”

“When it hurts. I’m not just slapping it down," he told her. "I have to actually clean the cut.”

“Oh, okay!” she said in a much higher pitch. “Great! Wonderful! Then when it hurts, I’ll just— I’ll— I’ll kick you or something! And it’ll be fine!”

Red Hood cocked his head. “After all I’ve done for you, you’re going to repay me by kicking me?”

Eden blinked at him. “What? Oh! No, no! I didn’t mean— I wasn’t really going to kick you! Of course not! I wouldn’t actually— Okay, I mean, maybe in like a knee-jerk kind of way, but not on purpose or anything! And even if I did do it on purpose, I’d probably hurt myself more than I’d hurt you, Mr. Hood – I think we both know that – ‘cause it would just, you know, be like a, uh, little baby kicking you or something. More sad than anything, really; just downright pathetic, and, honestly, you'd probably feel bad for me and have to pretend it hurt 'cause I'd just be holding my foot and crying, and—” 

Red Hood snickered loudly, cutting off her senseless jabbering. He turned his head and covered the place where his mouth would be but his shoulders kept shaking.

Eden’s whole face went up in flames. He'd been joking. And now he was laughing at her. Again.

“Oh, for goodness sake,” she grumbled turning away from him. She pushed her hair out of the way and offered up her neck. “Will you please just get this over with before I make a bigger fool of myself?”

“Hold on.” Still fighting back laughter, he reached for the bottle again. “I need to add some more.”

“More!?”

"Yeeaah," he said shaking his head oh-so-solemnly. "It dried out while you were talking." 

“Uh-huh, yeah, sure." She turned and pinned her eyes on the skyscrapers in the distance. "Go on and tease the panicking person, Mr. Hood. Very kind of you. Very classy.”

"What can I say? I'm such a kind, classy guy."

A laugh nearly tumbled out of her but Eden quickly fought it down, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. The sound of fresh alcohol spilling onto the cement wiped her suppressed smile clean away.

“Oh god.” She squeezed her eyes shut. “This is really happening, isn’t it?”

“You’re gonna be fine, Cookie Girl.”

“I am not gonna be fine!” she threw back. “This is awful! This is horrendous! This is— This is torturous!”

He scoffed, close to her neck now. “Don’t be such a baby. I haven’t even done anything yet.”

“I know! That’s what’s so awful!”

“Do you want to hold my hand or something?” 

Eden knew he was mocking her. She did. She just didn’t care. Her good hand clutched at the fabric of his leather jacket. The other wrapped around the exposed skin between his glove and tight, armor-like sleeve. Her mending palm warmed quickly against his skin.

He cleared his throat. “I was joking.”

“Well, that's too damn bad, Mr. Hood! Don’t go making offers you don’t wanna bank on! Now, would you puh-LEASE just get this over with!? I’m seriously starting to freak out here, and I really don’t appreciate the whole ‘Let’s draw this out as long as possible ‘cause it’s funny’ shtick, ‘cause it’s not funny, and I for one really don't appreciate—”

“Okay, okay! I’m doing it, I’m doing it. Sheesh.” He moved forward and ran the cloth over her torn skin in one quick motion. Eden shrieked and clutched his arm.

The burn was intense— sudden— unlike anything she’d felt before. Her eyes misted as she forced herself to breathe through clenched teeth.

Every so often, Red Hood gave her small words of assurance – that she was doing fine, that he was almost done – but Eden could only focus on the pain. Liquid fire bubbled and seared its way deep into the wound. She dragged the soles of her shoes against the cement, desperate for relief. Eventually, she tore her good hand away from Red Hood’s jacket and pounded her fist against the floor. She grabbed his sleeve again and held it tightly, trying not to cry.

When he finally finished, Red Hood carefully removed her good hand from his sleeve and put it on top of the cloth. “Keep this here, alright?”

“I don’t like this,” she sniffed, her voice wavering. “Why do we have to do this. I hate this. This is stupid.”

“You’re doing fine, Cookie Girl,” he said softly.

She half-huffed, half-whined in disagreement.

Red Hood turned back to his little black bag and dug around with his free hand. He made no indication of needing his other hand, so Eden didn’t let go. Every time the frothing, stinging burn flared up again she dragged her heel across the floor and gave his arm another tight squeeze. If it bothered him, he didn’t show it.

“So.” He pulled a small pouch from the bag. “What kind of trouble are you in, anyway?”

The furrow in her brow deepened. “What do you mean? I’m not in any trouble…”

“Right.” From the pouch, Red Hood took out a curved needle, some thick tweezers, and what looked like a spool of blue fishing line. “Because only someone not in any trouble would beg someone like me to patch them up instead of going to a hospital.”

“Hey now!" She let go of him and pointed to herself. "I didn't beg for nothin'. I just refused to go to the hospital. You're," she jabbed her finger at him, “the one who’s insisting on doing this nonsense.”

He scoffed and swiped her hand away as he threaded the needle. “Would you rather I didn’t do this nonsense?”

“It feels like the devil himself is pissing on my shoulder right now, so... yeah, to be completely honest, I’m kinda wishing you didn't.”

Red Hood stopped. Stiffly, he turned his head toward her. Eden shrunk back from the sudden, severe emotion coming from him. The heat of his hidden gaze, amplified by the glaring eyes of his helmet, was hard to meet.

“I’m sorry,” he said harshly, “did you want an infection in your fucking neck?”  

“No,” she said quietly.

“Then what about having a huge scar for the rest of your life?”

Knots formed in her stomach. “I’m not worried about scars,” she mumbled stubbornly.

“No? Then how about that cut reopening?” he shot back. “How about bleeding out a second fucking time when there's no one around? How about fucking dying? Are you worried about that?” he hissed. His distorted voice was sharper and more searing than Eden had ever heard it.

She sank further down the wall. It wasn't hard to understand why Red Hood was so worked up about this. She glanced down at the slick, sticky river of blood that had flooded her shirt and pooled down her torso. She'd lost so much so quickly... If she were a normal human being and the cut did reopen, there wouldn't be enough blood left in her body to survive it. She would bleed out and die just like Red Hood said.

But Eden wasn't normal. The cut wouldn't reopen. And even if it somehow did, it wouldn't kill her. Her body had already made up for most of the blood she'd lost — she could feel it. And even if it hadn't, even if the damn thing did kill her, it's not like she would stay dead anyway. The universe would demand another encore from her, just like it always did, and her heart would start again. Just like it always did.

Eden eyed the needle in Red Hood's hand apprehensively. He was going to put that into her skin. Into her cut. He was going to sew her up like an old ragdoll and she didn't even need it!

What would it feel like? Would it be small but sharp like getting pricked by a sewing needle? Strange and agonizing, as if she were being carved up by a tiny knife? Quick and exasperating, like getting her ears pierced again before they finally understood why the holes kept closing up? Or, would it feel like something she’d never experienced before — like the molten, frothy sting of alcohol on an open wound?

And, even worse, the stitches would eventually have to come out. Her body would be perfectly healed within a day or two – at most – and would leave no scar. There'd be nothing to suggest she’d ever even needed stitches in the first place. Even if she could find a way into a hospital without alarming her mother, how would she be able to explain that? She wouldn't. She'd have to remove them herself.

She could just... tell Red Hood her secret, of course. Avoid the whole kerfuffle that way but... But that was stupid. Yeah, he was trying to help her now, and, yeah, he’d save her before, but being a metahuman wasn’t something you just… told people about. Not even heroes. Eden wasn’t that stupid.

In fact, the only people she’d ever told were the “cousins” she considered siblings. And even then, unless they actively needed her powers, she only told them after years of knowing and trusting them. It was her greatest secret, and, as far as she was concerned, only family needed to know it.

Well. Family and whoever the hell Frank told, apparently.

Eden was still upset about that. People – people she didn’t know; people her mother didn’t know; total strangers – knew about her powers now. Frank had told the people he worked with about her without her knowledge or consent. He swore they were trustworthy, that they were merely interested in the science and what it could do, but that didn’t mean much to Eden. After all, he wasn’t even family. Not anymore.

She'd thought he wanted to be. Despite all the years of silence, of absence, she’d hoped he wanted to be when he suddenly reached out and asked to see her again. But when they finally did meet up, after all the backflips and hoop-jumping they’d gone through to keep Mama from catching wind, he’d treated her more like a business venture than a daughter.

That stung more than alcohol ever could.

“Well?”

Eden glanced up at Red Hood. Waiting, with needle in hand. Likely angry, or at the very least upset, with what he must’ve thought was a very stupid, very weak, very ungrateful little girl. He certainly wouldn't be the first.

She looked away again and let out a slow breath. Carefully, she removed the cloth from her neck, hissing softly as she did. She wordlessly offered up the wound a second time. He shifted closer, putting a hand near the cut. Eden flinched and he stopped again.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, softly, sure he was getting more irritated by the minute. “I’m sorry, I just…” She shook her head, fighting the shameful urge to cry. “I’m just," she choked. "I'm just no good at this stuff."

Red Hood said nothing. Eden wondered if silence was how he showed his disappointment.

After a moment, his free hand moved from her neck. He held it in front of her, his palm up. She stared at it, unsure of what it meant.

“It doesn’t hurt too bad,” he said gently. Eden's eyes lifted in surprise. “It does when the needle goes in," he continued, still soft, "but it’s more weird than painful, I swear. If you need to, you can still…" Red Hood looked to the side and started mumbling. "Y'know.” He bobbed his hand. “Hold my hand or whatever...”

A rebel tear ran down her cheek. Eden sniffed and quickly brushed it away. 

This... This was Gotham’s most-contested vigilante. The mob boss. The murderer. The one everyone and their mother had an opinion on. The one they said could never, should never, be considered a hero. This guy. The one who insisted on helping a stubborn, panicky, annoying civilian all night. The one who got downright pissed when she tried to brush off life-saving care. The one who did not rebuke her for being so pathetic, so weak, but instead shyly offered her comfort.

She couldn't wrap her head around it. People called Red Hood bad, immoral, unforgivable, but how? How could anyone think of him like that? Even if he'd done awful things... Even if he still did awful things... Red Hood clearly wasn't an awful person. He was thoughtful. He was kind. He was good.

Had any of the people who said those nasty things actually met him? Did they know how tender he could be? How sweet? Maybe they hadn’t and his rough reputation simply preceded him. Or maybe Eden was a fool who couldn't see the true cruelty hidden beneath a masterful facade. Or... maybe she was one of the lucky ones who got to see past the facade, who got to see the heart hidden underneath.

Eden gingerly took his hand, so, so grateful. “Thank you, Mr. Hood,” she whispered, hoping the words would be enough to convey at least a small fraction of what she was feeling.

He grumbled something back — his voice garbled more than usual. 

Eden smiled and giggled softly, feeling outstandingly lucky.

“You ready now?” he muttered.

She nodded. "Ready."

He moved forward again, slowly this time — giving her enough time to stop him if she needed it. She squeezed his hand in anticipation. He took it as a go-ahead.

There was a sharp prick at the base of her collarbone followed by a strange sliding sensation. Like he’d said, there was a sharp, shooting pain each time the needle went in or out of her skin, but it wasn’t too bad. The real issue was the silk-like thread. The slick feeling of it running in and through her skin, tugging pieces of herself together… It was off-putting. Nauseating, even.

Eden tried not to squirm too much. When the needle pierced too thin a piece of skin, she squeaked and scraped her shoe against the ground as Red Hood muttered an apology. When the tugging made her nearly gag, she zeroed in on the scruff marks along his jacket, breathing slowly as she counted them up.

When none of that helped, she would squeeze his hand, silently begging for strength. He squeezed back, readily giving it whenever she asked.

“There,” he said pulling the needle through one last time. He tugged the thread firmly. “Can I have my hand for a second?”

Eden let go and watched as he tied off the string and cut off the excess.

“So…" she tried. "How do I get them out?”

“They’ll dissolve or fall out in a few weeks’ time. No hospitals necessary.”

She nodded slowly then let out a breath of relief. "Thank you," she mumbled.

Red Hood studied her a moment. He lowered his head slightly and stayed that way, something clearly on his mind.

Then, as if forcing himself, he reached for her cut hand. Eden jerked it close to her chest.

“Are you gonna put stitches in my hand, too? That would hurt worse, wouldn’t it? Since it’s my palm?” She snuck a glance at the cut as she spoke.

The first time she’d looked at it, it ran clear across her palm from end to end. There’d been thin cuts across some of her fingers too. She honestly couldn't remember when it had happened in the fight or how, but she must’ve grabbed for the knife at some point and been holding it by the blade when it was roughly pulled from her grasp.

Now, the cut was much smaller. Only about an inch and a half over the center of her palm. She couldn’t even tell where the smaller slices on her fingers had been. She imagined the skin there still looked a little irritated, but – because it was dark and her hand was still coated with blood – she couldn’t see it.

“I might not have to,” Red Hood said holding his hand out for hers. “The neck was definitely worse, but let me take another look at it.”

Nervously, Eden took one more glance at her palm then handed it over.

Red Hood inspected it a moment then tilted his head. "Huh."

She panicked. “What!?” she shrieked, startling him enough to look away from the cut. “Is it bad? Do I need stitches? Please don’t say I need any more stitches, Mr. Hood, I really don’t think I can handle going through that with my hand. Please say I don’t. Pretty please?”

He glanced down at it again. “You don't.” Very gently, he ran a thumb over the cut. “It’s a lot smaller than I remember…”

“Oh, thank goodness!" she said in a fast voice. She started tugging her hand away. "So we’re all good then, right? No more patching up? You can just take me home now?” 

Red Hood let out an amused hum and started packing up his supplies. “You trying to get rid of me?” 

“No, not at all! But," she brought up a finger, "if you bring that alcohol crap anywhere near me again, I really am going to kick you.”

He scoffed and batted her hand away. Then he paused and dipped his head. “Actually," he teased, reaching for the bottle. "Now that you mention it—”

“No. No, no."

“We really should clean it."

“Nope. No. Don’t you dare.”

“Aw, c'mon, Cookie Girl,” he said waving the bottle. “Just to be safe?" 

“Mr. Hood, I will kick you and I will do it hard.”

He laughed, stood up, and offered his hand. "You gonna cry when you do?"

"No! ...Maybe." She took his hand. "Shut up."

—

Feedback is always appreciated! 🥰💕 

Chapter 6

[rahleeyah]

what if jen and jean swapped places?

This is SUCH A FUN QUESTION OMG

Jen would be FURIOUS. If she's trying to play along, the restrictions suddenly placed on her by Jean's role in the house and position in society would, I think, be a grave insult to her. Jen is used to a certain degree of convenience in life, and a certain degree of responsibility and professional pride, and I think she would find this position sexist and insulting. What do you mean there's a separate room in the pub for women? What do you mean she has to cook and clean and organize the surgery for Lucien when he can't even bother to put his own laundry away? What do you mean she has to wash his dirty undies and they're not even married? What do you mean she can't take out a loan, or buy a car, or do what she sees as proper police work? She sees the way women are treated by their husbands, owned by their husbands, trapped by husbands and babies and the church and all of it, and she is seething.

I love the idea of Jen trying to explain the situation to Lucien, and him believing her completely. Like "yes, you most certainly are not Jean, I can see that now, but no one else will ever believe you so let's keep this between us bc otherwise they're gonna lock you in an asylum."

I love the idea of Lucien being fascinated by what she can tell him of the future, and I also love the idea of Lucien showing Jen that like, yes, the treatment of women in this time period is Not Great, but he respects Jean and cares for her and Jen doesn't have to pity her. Pity others, sure, but not Jean Beazley.

I love this: "you look just like her, you know," he says softly while they sit in his office sharing a drink one night. "Except for the...erm..." he gestures to her hair. Jen arrived in this place looking just like herself, ten years younger than Jean and blonde to boot, and Lucien has been trying to keep her home and out of sight as much as possible, just in case.

"You miss her, don't you?" Jen asks. She can see it in his eyes, the way he watches her, the sorrow that seems to linger on the edge of every word he says. He helps with the dishes, and with the dinner, sometimes, has been kind and done his best to assist her, to make her feel comfortable and work through this problem with her, but she knows when he sees her he doesn't see Jen. He sees her.

"Very much," he says, softly. "Not that I'm not delighted to have you here, Jennifer, it's just that Jean...well, Jean is...she's..."

Jen smiles, and lets him flounder. She knows what it is he can't say.

BUT THEN

Jean, thrust into the modern day. It is so loud and so bright and everything is moving so fast and there's a roughness to the people around her she doesn't quite know how to manage. They aren't...well...they certainly don't hesitate to say what they think, and Jean is learning, day by day, how to deal with them.

Picture that first morning. Jean wakes up in a bed that is definitely not hers to the sound of a small device on the side table making a truly terrible sound. It alarms her so much she just stuffs it under the pillow, and goes to explore the little house where she has found herself.

It is, she thinks, exactly the sort of little house she might like to have herself one day, two bedrooms, cozy, with a neat little garden, only the furnishings and decor and by god the clothes are all...it's like her world, but everything slanted a little bit to the left, almost the same but just strange enough to leave her uncomfortable and afraid.

The kettle in the kitchen is familiar, though, so she goes and makes herself a cup of tea. She has no sooner sat down at the table, wondering what on earth has happened to her and how she's going to get out of this one, when she hears someone pounding on the door. It's a man, and it sounds almost like he's calling her name. Almost, but not quite. Jen, he says, not Jean. But he's not going anywhere, so Jean wraps herself in the robe hanging on the back of the bedroom door and then goes to see who's come calling.

His suit is black, and nice, but nowhere near so fine as Lucien's. His face is handsome enough, his hair thick and soft. He's tall, too, though not so broad as Lucien. And when he sees her, he swears.

"Jesus," he says. If Jean knew him she'd chide him for his language but the man is a stranger to her, and she bites her tongue.

"Where is she?" He asks after a moment.

Jean deliberates with herself. She doesn't know this man, doesn't know if he means her harm, but she doesn't know where she is or how she got here, and his eyes are kind.

"You better come in," she says.

So Jean tells Nick her story, and Nick tells her about his Jennifer. Nick "runs interference" (that's what he calls it, anyway) between Jean and Jennifer's job. He takes her out, shows her the city, helps her buy groceries, keeps her company when he can, around the job.

"You miss her, don't you?" Jean asks him one night. They're eating Chinese food Nick picked up from a shop, and while Jean has come to find she quite enjoys it, she can't bring herself to eat out of the cartons and insists she plate up their meal properly. Nick doesn't protest.

"Yeah," he says. "I do."

Nothing more than that. He's a quiet man, Jean's found. Not brash and endlessly jabbering like Lucien, but kind, still, for all that.

Jean and Nick are the ones who figure it out, in the end. Jennifer Mapplethorpe, born in 1969, is the daughter of none other than Amy Parks, Jean's wayward niece. Since it was only 1960 when Jean left her life she has of course never met her great-niece. Jen never met her great aunt, having spent her childhood in Melbourne, believing she had no family beyond her parents.

"Maybe that's why," Nick says quietly as they look over the family tree they've drawn out together. "Maybe you're here so that we can fix it, so that whatever made Amy leave Ballarat doesn't happen. So she doesn't feel so alone."

"But if Amy never leaves Ballarat, you'd never have your Jennifer," Jean points out.

Nick smiles. "Oh, I don't know," he says. "Fate's thrown us together twice already. Third time lucky, and all that."

The next morning Jean wakes up in her own bed, and she thinks of Nick, and she smiles. His quiet, steady nature was a comfort to her in that wild world, and she has learned so much from him. The most important lesson being: don't waste time.

So she races downstairs in her pink nightgown. The light is on in Lucien's office and she doesn't hesitate to approach. At the sound of her footfall he calls out, "Jennifer?" And it is that, more than anything, that convinces Jean that this is real.

"Expecting someone else?" She asks softly as she steps through the door.

Lucien vaults to his feet, his eyes full of wonder.

"Jean?" He breathes.

"I'm here, Lucien," she says, and in the next instant he is racing out from behind his desk, crushing her against his chest.

"I missed you," he whispers, and when Jean lifts her chin, and sees the look of devotion in his eyes, she just smiles, and kisses him senseless. No time like the present, she thinks.

In Melbourne Jennifer wakes up in her own bed, and she's so happy she could cry. Lucien has his Jean back, and they'll be happy, she knows. Now Jen has her car and her mobile and her little house and the Chinese takeaway place she loves so much; now Jen is home, and home means work, and the boys, and Nick, Nick more than anything.

The thought no sooner occurs to her than she hears someone knocking on her front door. She knows, somehow, that it's Nick. Who else would it be?

She races out of her bedroom half dressed, flings the door open, and watches as his mouth drops open in shock.

"Jen," he says, and she has missed the sound of his voice saying her name so much that to hear it now shatters her restraint. With a little cry she breaks, and races into his arms; Nick lifts her bodily from the ground, her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, her face pressed in close to him.

"I missed you," she says. "I missed you."

Nick just kicks the door closed, and carries them both to her bedroom. They both call in sick that day.

[instruth]

Oh! What A City So Full Of Pity

Oh! Bitter urban, the city slums

Daily bread of bits and crumbs

As day is day, and night is night

A born-blind misses not a sight

Living becomes an opportunity

To ignore deprivation, no self pity

Be quick, to never miss a chance

Game of chess with just a glance

Overcrowding makes good company

Measure poverty by counts of agony

Picking pebbles beside a dusty road

Deaths lift burden off a heavy load

Polluted air roams the foul gutter

Senseless attempts fail to utter

Running errands on shoeless feet

Taking shortcuts by the back streets

No time to idle, true bums are lazy

Be busy as bees, flitting in a frenzy

Drugs and ales deceive the whimsical

Help the fearful turn brave, tyrannical

Dreaming creates jabbers and chatters

Professional robbers and keen rioters

Bamboo beats to tapping vocalists

Unrhetorical drunks turn moralists

Undeserving as raw meat on the windows

Raising funds for the deserving widows

Never shirk from the spark of loyalty

Abort the prim and proper acts of royalty

Stretching fullest from feet to finger tips

Add mind and soul, through burning lips

©Johnny J P Lee

08 December 2022

Gogyoshiren Poem (30)

Photo Credit J. P. Lee

[niccolo-dirossi-bli]

Because your senseless jabbering is beginning to bore me.

Bli-ussy Have a better Dussy

What.

[tetrakys]

idk if someone send you that request but it obviously matches Armin: 43, 42 & 52

42. “Just let me finish this/this level and I swear I’ll go down on you until you cum at least three times.” & 43. “If I have to stop what I’m doing, you won’t be able to walk for the next week.” & 52. “I’m not jealous! It’s just…you’re mine!”

I’m sorry honey this took me only what… four/five months? 😅 hope it was worth the wait.

I needed something quick and dirty with UL Armin and I remembered this prompt request. I know there’s probably only 3 people here who may be interested in this, so @itsmymindspeaking and @fuckyalllifes this is for us 😂

.

I chugged my drink in one go, a little dizziness coming to my head. I had spent good part of the night drinking and I was feeling just a little tipsy. It wasn’t like I was bored, I was out with my friends after all, but I wasn’t having the time of my life either.

I looked at Alexy and Morgan kissing passionately without a care in the world, and then at Rosa and Leigh, looking at each other with a complicity that anyone would’ve envied.

Then I looked at the empty seat right next to me.

“Is everything all right, Candy?” Rosa asked, sensing my discomfort. “It’s about Armin, isn’t it? Where is he, anyway? It feels like I haven’t seen him in ages.”

“Where do you think?” I replied without managing to hide the annoyance from my voice. “In his dorm room of course. He’s been holed up in there since the beginning of spring break.”

“Wait… he’s not… no it can’t be… is he spending the holidays playing video games 24/7?”

“Of course he is!” Alexy replied before I’d time to say anything. He must’ve caught our conversation between one kiss and the next. “Yesterday morning I left him sitting in front of the tv playing that stupid co-op game he likes so much, and that’s exactly where I found him this evening before we came here. I’m not even surprised, I gave up on him years ago.” He turned back in his seat, looking at Morgan adoringly. “Luckily, I don’t have to suffer through the night because of his constant jabbering with his geek friends, I’ve found a more comfortable accommodation. If I’m kept up all night is for completely different and more pleasurable reasons.”

After those words he started kissing Morgan again, abandoning the rest of the conversation.

“Well,” Rosa went on, “this isn’t right. You can’t let him take you for granted, Candy. Do something!”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know… try to make him jealous.”

“Ha! You know that won’t work. He’s the least possessive person on the face of the Earth.” I replied a little defeated.

“Then remind him what he’s missing out on by spending the whole time in front of a screen instead of his girlfriend!”

“Meaning? You know that I won’t be able to tempt him with a date. The times we go out, he does it just to please me, if it were for him we would spend the whole day in his room playing games. And don’t get me wrong, I love playing with him, it’s just that sometimes I need more, like…” I hesitated, “I don’t know, I feel like a spoiled child just saying this but… sometimes I just want his undivided attention.”

“Then take it!”

“How?”

She looked at me like I was stupid.

“You’re a woman, it’s not that hard to figure out. Do I need to check your underwear like in high school?”

“There’s no need. But… are you suggesting using my body to beg him for attention? Isn’t it a little too desperate?” I asked biting my lip nervously.

“Aren’t you? Desperate?” she replied ironically. “Look, it’s not that big of deal, really. Even I… you know how Leigh can get sometimes,” she looked at him queuing at the bar to get us a refill. “He’s so passionate about his work. Sometimes I need to remind him to take a break,” she laughed.

“Mmm…” I replied evasively. Her words weren’t completely unreasonable. I was a strong, modern woman, if I wanted something, I just had to take it. I’m a woman hear me roar and all that…

Maybe… maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

—

 “Be careful…  On your right! No! Fuck! It’s a grenade!”

I was leaning against the doorframe as I stared at my boyfriend, willing him to take notice of me. He was sitting down on the floor, back against the bed, wearing only his boxer shorts and a t-shirt. Controller in his hands, his eyes fixed on the big screen in front of him. I could hear the muffled voices of his teammates coming from the headphones he was wearing.

I’d let myself in thanks to my spare keys ten minutes ago, and since then I’d been waiting for him to strike a conversation with me. A distracted “Hi babe,” was everything that I’d gotten so far.

I thought again about Rosa’s suggestion. Was I really going to do this? Yes, yes I was. It was time to send the message through.

I started from my shoes, removing one at the time, then it was my t-shirt’s turn. I thought it was going to take longer for him to take notice of what was going on, but he must’ve caught the garment dropping to the floor with the corner of his eye, because he sent me a quick glance, surprised, and asked, “what are you doing, babe?”

“Just making myself comfortable,” I replied, as my hands went to the zip of my jeans.

I continued undressing seemingly without a care in the world, and he kept playing, but I could tell he wasn’t as focused as he’d been before. He kept throwing quick glances my way whenever he had a chance.

Soon enough I was left in just my underwear, but I didn’t stop, and went for the clasp of my bra.

“Fuck!” he cried out, he’d clearly messed up something in the game the moment my bra had come off and he’d stared at my breasts one second too long. I could hear irate voices coming from his headphones. “Just let me finish this level and I swear I’ll go down on you until you cum at least three times,” he said in an almost pleading voice.

I simply shook my head as with slow, calculating movements, I slipped my fingers under the hem of my panties and let them fall to the floor.

A horse groan came directly from his throat. “If I have to stop what I’m doing, you won’t be able to walk for the next week.” He tried to sound authoritative, failing miserably. “Please…”

“Keep playing, Armin.” I said walking towards him.

Without giving him any time to realise what I was about to do, I kneeled on the floor and forced my way between his arms, straddling him.

“Candy,” he cried out a little panicked, his hands almost losing their grip on the controller, “what…”

“Shhh…” I whispered in his ear. “Keep playing, not a sound, otherwise your friends are going to figure out something is going on.”

After these words, I started languidly kissing his neck. From the stiffness of his body, around which I was completely enveloped, I knew he was shocked and didn’t know exactly what to do. His shallow breaths were also an indication of his nervousness, and if the angry voices I could hear yelling at him from his headphones weren’t indication enough of the fact that he was pretty distracted, only half concentrating on the game, the hard length pressing against my core would’ve definitely been a telling hint.

“Fuck!” he groaned the moment I lowered the hem of his boxer briefs and took him in my hand. A couple of short, tentative strokes.

“MadHatter what the hell!” I heard someone yelling, and I knew Armin was finding more and more difficult to concentrate. Without wasting any more time, I lowered myself onto him, filling me to the hilt.

“Shhh…” I whispered again, as he started making a series of unintelligible sounds. “Don’t even think about muting the mic. Eyes on that screen and play, I know how important it is to you.”

I started riding him slowly, almost excruciatingly slow. I knew I was making him go completely crazy. My hands where at each side of his head, holding the bed frame. No other parts of our bodies were touching, except for our cores, and my nipples rubbing against his still clothed chest, every time I moved up and down.

“Candy… Fuck… I can’t… this is too hot…”

I knew he’d dropped the controller the moment I felt both of his hands on my ass, as he started guiding my movements faster and deeper. The irate protests of his teammates coming from the headphones signalled he’d just left out of the blue in the middle of the game. Everyone was probably getting slaughtered by the other team, but he didn’t seem to care. He took my lips with his and gave me a hungry, mind-blowing kiss.

Our movements got wilder, the pace almost brutal, punishing. I was throwing all my anger into it and, at the same time, he was taking everything and demanding even more, his fingers probably leaving ten small bruises on the skin of my ass cheeks. I was sure we would either pass out soon due to lack of oxygen or seriously hurt ourselves.

A few minutes later, when he took one of my nipples in his mouth and sucked it roughly, I came completely undone, crying out his name as he spent himself inside me.

“I don’t know what I did to make you so angry,” he said after a while, as we both caught our breaths, “but I should probably do it more often.”

“Or maybe you should just pay me some fucking attention,” I retorted. “Instead of playing with your online friends all the time. And then, maybe, you would get fucked senseless more often.”

He moved his head so that now he was looking at me in the eye with his signature jokester smile. “Are you jealous, babe?”

I grabbed his hair, pulling maybe a little more roughly than necessary. “I’m not jealous! It’s just…you’re mine!”

“That, I am.” Without losing his hold on me, he got up and threw me onto the bed.

“Armin what the…”

“I told you, didn’t I? If I had to stop playing, you wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.” He cheekily, replied as he took off his t-shirt and underwear and joined me on the bed.

He didn’t go back online until the end of spring break.

[singsfromthesoul]

‘Alice By Heart’ and AWAE

Okay so while I know we’re all reeling from the season finale and coming to grips with/fighting against the cancellation but I’ve been thinking about the overlaps between these two stories for months so bear with me. I’ve wanted to write an AU but haven’t because I can’t find AWAE equivalents for some of the ABH characters (esp the villains). I’m gonna try and gather the lyrics that most remind me of AWAE and its characters (bc honestly “And who knew what to do with all I felt for you, in the song of the afternoon...” just SCREAMS s3 shirbert).

‘Still’

Gilbert is obviously the Alfred/White Rabbit equivalent here, and I think this song works a lot with his character. Since the death of his father, Gilbert seems to want nothing more than to keep moving forward and, by consequence, grow up. I see this in Alfred’s desire to outrun the clock (and his own death) and Alice’s insistence that he stay with her in this moment (a very Anne thing to do, I would say).

[Alfred]

“Oh, I'm ahead of my time Still If I keep moving Forward, and I fall behind Still So much to do when

But how can I stop the clock in me When I'm chasing me Still Time is chasing me Still”

[...]

[Alice]

“Stay Where the grasses sway The river stopped moving Here, with the lazy blue day Your roses just blooming

So why can't we linger and dream?

Walk with me

Still Linger on with me Still”

‘Those Long Eyes’

There’s not a whole lot to this one, only that I was thinking about it A LOT when the 3x05 dance happened bc it’s got some really nice waltz-y vibes. Also, the description of “his hard shell and those long eyes” reminds me of Ruby’s assessment that Gilbert is a sad and handsome boy.

“[CHESHIRE PUSS] Just hold her by the claws and whisper, "Lobs Let’s give this tide" Dance, and give yourself to his hard shell And those long eyes”

[...]

“ [ALICE, CHESHIRE PUSS, WHITE RABBIT] Just hold her by the claws and whisper, "Lobs Let's waltz all night" Dance, and give yourself to nothing else But those long eyes Waltz and waltz all night Ignore the tide In those long eyes”

‘Sick to Death of Alice-ness’

The argument within this song is the painful one of people who know each other well enough to hit where it hurts. Which we hate, obviously. However, we know that Gilbert hasn’t held back in terms of calling Anne out if the situation calls for it. This one gives me vibes of the misunderstandings of early s3 but especially the argument (if it even can be called that) in s1 after Gilbert’s dad’s funeral. 

[MAD HATTER, DORMOUSE, & MARCH HARE/ALFRED] 

“Stop the analyzing Of everything you've read No more making nice with us We don’t want in your head”

It’s interesting how the argument makes Alice’s insecurities rise in a way we haven’t seen up to that point, and how closely they mirror Anne’s. Her struggles and awareness of them can sometimes blind her to those of others.

[ALICE] “It's all about your pain

[MAD HATTER & DORMOUSE] Alice-ness

[MARCH HARE/ALFRED] Sorry, but whose pain?

[MAD HATTER & DORMOUSE] Sick to death

[ALICE] You'll leave me all the same”

‘Brillig Braelig’

This is a tricky one because the lyrics are kinda gibberish but hit the mood somehow. The Jabberwocky teases Alice about Alfred’s impending death with a lot of medical gibberish and she argues that she won’t let it happen. There’s also the idea of the Jabberwocky as an abstract, the sorrow that we let creep into our heads and make itself comfortable there. I think both Anne and Gilbert have a lot of this and that the defiant stance that Alice takes is very Anne-like. No idea who could be the Jabberwocky equivalent though.

[JABBERWOCKY] “There was a day the world was made Of you and room and catch- And then one day the sorrow came And you moved into that And then callai a Jabber came And made his room your mind And jabber-ached and jabber-played And jabber all the time”

[...]

[ALICE] “Words aren't what you say they mean He's not some diagnosis

[JABBERWOCKY & SOLDIERS] This is where your story ends Go down your hole and hole up

[ALICE] Senseless, heartless idiot I will not give his soul up!”

‘Some Things Fall Away’

The Cheshire Cat (played in ABH by a female actress) has a conversation with Alice about the nature of loss. Honestly I kinda really want Ms Stacy to be Cheshire here even though it’s also a moment that could easily come from Marilla as well. I’ll link the lyrics because the whole song is beautiful.

“Shadows pause at the window Meet their gaze Their grief is yours”

‘Isn’t it a Trial?’

Season 3 in particular, has Anne teetering on the line between childhood and adulthood. This song features Alice being put on trial for having the sheer audacity to grow up. It talks about the confusion of being stuck between the two and how feelings of attraction can begin to mark the line between phases. It hits a lot of interesting sweet spots but I can’t think of a good equivalent for the Queen of Hearts.

[QUEEN OF HEARTS] “Shall we have a song For the girl gone naughty Somehow feels so wrong Now to have that body Rabbit got so big What's his mama fed him Don't you feel a pig Still you want to pet him

Well, isn't it a trial To try and stay a child The world no longer fits And still you're stuck in it Isn't it a trial No child can stay a child”

‘I’ve Shrunk Enough’

Alice decides that growing up is, in fact, not a crime and with the help of Alfred-as-the-White-Rabbit and Cheshire she gtfo’s out of the trial. Once again, Alice’s defiance and refusal to play by the rules imposed by others is very Anne-like. 

[ALICE] “No queen can make of me A mouth without a scream”

[...]

“No shuffling with my soul My highness is your low Stand back and watch me grow

[ALICE & CHESHIRE PUSS] Oh, and I am hugest Faced with fools like you, yes Schooled by your abuses But you're out of time Growing up is not a crime”

[...]

[ALICE & WHITE RABBIT] “Go back to being pictures in my dreams You're nothing but a hatter holding tea Telling riddles not worth answering It's done, I'm done, I've shrunk enough”

‘Afternoon’

Alice and Alfred say their final goodbyes as Alfred succumbs to his illness. But that’s hella tragic and if I did, in fact, write that AU I wouldn’t kill Gilbert off because I just couldn’t. However this is the moment when Alfred and Alice speak most plainly about their feelings and and I get shirbert vibes from some of it.

[ALFRED] “I knew you were a strange girl or I thought you were You mustered all the wonder from the room of hurt We knew the world of summer Like a sister, like a brother And the melodies were sweeter left unheard”

[...]

[ALICE] “And who knew what to do With all I felt for you In the song of the afternoon Afternoon”

‘Winter Blooms’

Alice learns to deal with her sorrow, instead of running away from it. Much in the same way that Anne eventually decides to let go of her imaginary friends and worlds as a coping mechanism and face the world head on. In both cases, it’s a sign of growth and maturity. And in the case of Anne, it’s not even necessary to kill off the love interest to achieve it. 

[ALICE SPENCER & TABATHA] “Nothing comes or goes without a shadow Somewhere in the soul you hold a candle Let the sorrow go, it's half the battle”

These were some of my thoughts on the subject, I’m totally up for discussion and ideas! I’d love to make this AU happen but I don’t really know how and it certainly doesn’t help that the plot of this musical is so loose.

[cyanpeacock]

Here’s a dark fable. The moral of the story... is yours, to tell me, if you’d like.

*

In the jungles of Bangladesh, lived a peacock.

He had lived in luxury since he was a chick. His mother was kind. She was attentive. She always brought him food, and when there was not enough, she went without while her children feasted. His father was around, and chirped to him consolingly in the hard times, and crowed with joy in the good ones.

Still, this peacock was unhappy.

He was angry, and rude, and brash to the other peacocks. Once, he kicked another chick out of the nest, so he could have more food when he was already full of delicious grubs!

His mother was very disappointed in him. 

How could this be? She had been so kind, so gentle, so careful to meet the every need of her chick. Why was he so cruel? Had she gone wrong, somewhere? Had she hurt him, somehow, while he rested in his egg? Could it be that he was... well, just not right?

The truth about this peacock, is that he was simply too sensitive.

He took the other chick glancing at his grub as a threat. He thought - that means he’s going to steal my food! I’ll teach him a lesson! I’ll take your food!

Of course, this was an overreaction, so far as any of the other peacocks were concerned. He summarily got exiled to the furthest corner of the nest, for bad behaviour.

This didn’t make the peacock feel any better.

In fact, he felt more threatened.

“Why are you doing this to me?!”, he asked himself. “What are you getting out of this?! Are you trying to starve me?! Are you trying to kill me?!”

These, of course, were some quite serious leaps of logic.

The peacock had prided himself on being a very logical creature. 

“I’m much smarter than these other chicks,” he thought to himself, scuffing his little talons in the dirt. “I don’t know why I bother with them.”

He didn’t bother with them much. They couldn’t bother with him! He was so cruel when they jibed and joked and laughed, always taking it the wrong way, when they just wanted to have fun. This peacock never considered that while he was smart, he lacked - and had too much of - feeling.

Eventually, the time came for him to go into the world, alone, and find a mate.

He crowed the prowess of his mind from every treetop in Bangladesh. “I’m smart! I’m smart!”, he cried, absolute in his certainty his ‘intelligence’ would find him a mate.

No mate came.

The peacock, frustrated, went about his days with increasing resentment. 

He had killed cobras to eat before, and this satisfied him. It was more of a challenge than picking berries from bushes, or buds from the branches. Still, he was angry as he ate.

One day, he was just passing by, in a mighty state. His fury was close to the boil. 

The final straw was the sight of a cobra, crossing his path with an undue amount of pride in its slither.

The peacock, though he was not hungry, struck. He killed the snake, and found a horrible, wonderful feeling washing over him. 

Such relief! 

He took such delight in the act! He felt such power, such control! This could only be right!

Oh, couldn’t it.

So, this rude, cruel peacock had found his first hobby. 

He killed cobras. Not all of them - that didn’t make any sense, though he thought about it. Surely at least some cobras were useful, if only to make more cobras. He just killed the ones he liked the look of. 

This greatly disturbed the other peacocks. What kind of animal kills, not to eat, but for the joy of it? 

They could not understand.

One peacock, a mystic type, crooned softly. He crooned that the killer was only making sure the insects had enough to eat. 

The other peacocks summarily discarded both the mystic, and the killer, as quite mad. 

Well - most of them did. Just one or two tilted their beaks to the sky, considered this, and found it to be... a good enough reason. 

Then, they carried on.

This killing habit was of no benefit to our peacock. 

It scared the other birds even more, and he grew very lonely, killing snakes, all on his own. No other peacock would listen to his cries in the mating season, or even chirp “hello” to him as he passed by in the canopy. 

His loneliness made him jaded, and tired, and... lonely. He grew sloppy with his craft - leaving snakes alive and twitching, or wounded, and slither-limping away. Those who survived had quite the stories to tell, about a mighty blue God from the sky, that might strike to deliver judgement at any time. Repent for your sins, they hissed, lest He take you unawares.

Quite bored of his indecent conduct, unaware of his growing infamy, and in search of a thrill, the peacock came up with a plan. 

“I’m going to find the biggest, meanest snake in this jungle, and I’m going to get him. I’m going to kill the meanest cobra in this entire place!”, he thought to himself, childishly, like a real grown-up.

So, he went about, and searched around, and looked very hard for something.

The other peacocks were unnerved by this change in his behaviour. 

Their snake-killer was not... well, killing snakes, any more?

Perhaps this was good.

“What are you doing?”, the bold ones chirped to him, wondering if their cousin had lost his mind so completely, he’d become incapable of fending for himself.

“Oh, nothing,” said the killer, quite intent on executing his plan.

The peacocks left him alone again, satisfied he probably did know what he was doing, and equally satisfied that they probably didn’t want any part in his madness. 

Eventually, our peacock came across the biggest, meanest, shiniest, strongest-fanged cobra in the entire jungle.

He was huge. His scales were black, and shone like the night-time, with its stars gleaming with power. His teeth were white, and hollow, and strong. On his neck he bore a great cape, bearing splendid eyes that gazed out remorselessly, to intimidate any threat that might come his way.

He was perfect. 

Quite mad, quite engrossed, and quite obsessed, our peacock stalked his chosen prey. He ignored all else for his purpose, in fact. He gathered information - where does he slither, when does he rest, where could I hide?

One day, the opportunity came.

The cobra was quite unawares, just like in the stories others told, of the great blue God from the sky - the stories he had never taken seriously, in his fat and happy ease. He was full, and sleepy, and very tired, so he curled up in a shallow hole in the dirt, pleased and intent on digesting his meal.

The peacock struck. He fell from the sky, vicious, victorious, and burning.

The cobra heard a great crashing as he burst through the underbrush, all too late. 

He was bewildered by the sight before his eyes - who is this? Who is this skinny, mangy, louse-bitten bird, with his feathers all ragged and his eyes a-blazing? Does he need something to e--

The peacock sank his bill into the cobra’s neck, and a horrible realization came over the snake.

So, it was his time to be eaten.

The peacock relished in it. He bathed in bliss in his first taste of blood, in what seemed like a lifetime.

As he was fading, the cobra hissed.

“You know,” he slurred, around his fangs and dying breath, “I could have told you where to find easier prey.”

And with that, he was gone.

The peacock froze.

Two hearts were no longer beating.

Only one started again.

Why wasn’t he scared?

Why didn’t he fight?

Why... why would a cobra tell him where to find easier prey?

The peacock’s mind raced so fast, it went entirely blank. 

This, he thought to himself, was not how it was supposed to be!

No! No-- impossible! Where was the struggle?! Where was the glory?! Where was the valiant battle, and the splatters of blood?! Where was the rush?!

Why did he feel so empty?

The peacock heard, again, the words of the dying snake. 

“I could have told you where to find easier prey.” 

Was that a threat?

Did he know it was going to be like this?

No. No snake could know the future. Not even the mystic knew the future.

This cannot be.

The peacock began to dwell. He began to obsess, over a new and different thing. No longer was he interested in the senseless murder of snakes, or even the love of a mate he had once crowed for so enthusiastically. No - he had to find an answer. He had to know. 

Why?

So, once again, he went quite mad. 

He flew from treetop to treetop, crowing, and squawking, and entirely silent. He jabbered in tongues at the insects on the ground, and nodded as though they’d given him meaning. He even dared to approach the monkeys, who snatched at his tail feathers and bared their teeth in rage, and he flew away screaming in something that wasn’t delight.

Why? Why? Why?

The other peacocks, again, grew quite worried. Even the bold were too scared to approach the strange one when he was like this.

They consulted the mystic. 

“The strange one - it’s not well, again.” they said.

“What is he saying?”, asked the mystic. 

“Well, nonsense.”

“No, no,” said the mystic. “What is he saying? What is he repeating?” 

Clarification was sometimes necessary, for the mystic. Not all of them understood saying. The ones who did... tended to remain silent.

“Errrm... it sounds like... a whole lot of, why?”, the peacocks said.

“Ah.” said the mystic. “Then... there is no hope for him.”

This, the other peacocks found disturbing. 

They were also disturbed by the mystic, and its solitary, jumbled nest, and the way it called its brown feathers “blue”. 

So, they left, confused, and troubled, but able to go on with their lives. 

The mystic did not know there was no hope for the killer. Indeed, he believed this change might mean an awful lot of hope. Really, he just wanted the other birds to get out of his nest. Or did he? Perhaps there was a reason for that... the mystic did an awful lot of wondering. 

The killer was in a bad way.

His feathers were falling out. His eyes were dull, and lit with an insane spark. Even the lice had all but abandoned his thin and un-nourishing blood. 

“No, no, no,” he muttered to himself, and the leaves. “No, no, no. That’s not it. That’s not why he said it. He wasn’t trying to be nice. He was trying to screw with me. Wasn’t he?”

The leaves whispered that yes, he was trying to be nice, killer.

“Why?! Why?!” cried the peacock. “He’s a cobra. Why be nice to a peacock?!”

“Well... because he wasn’t very nice to the other cobras,” whispered the leaves. 

“Killer,” murmured a berry. 

“No, no, no. No. No! No-- no!! No.” hollered the bird. “That makes no sense. I’m a peacock. He’s a cobra. We’re mortal enemies!”

“Are you?”, whispered the leaves. “He wanted you to eat, too.”

“No,” the peacock muttered, again. “No. No! This cannot be! Why?!”

He screamed. He hollered. He cried, and he yelped, and he tore at the bushes to try and silence their horrid words, screeching senselessly the entire time. He savaged the bush, for no good reason, and found this act only made the screaming in his head grow louder. 

The bush had been silenced. It had been destroyed, in fact, and it had disturbed the entire neighbourhood in the process of being reduced to fungus food. 

The peacock fared no better. 

He couldn’t understand. He was enraged. He was sick. He was so full of despair his mind was burning. He-- he was guilty?

For the first time in his short, cruel, life, our murderous friend felt guilty.

He abhorred it.

It abhorred him.

An idea came into his mind.

It was ugly.

It was dreadful, in fact.

It was the only way.

The next day, the peacocks woke up to the dawn, and found a terrible thing. 

It was the body of the killer, draped carelessly, with such awful ease, his broken neck and battered feathers swaying gracefully in the hot breeze.

The chicks screamed in horror. Even the adults cried, mouths agape. His form was in disrepair - wilted, abused, thinner than any bird they had ever seen. It was awful to behold.

“Why? Why?” sobbed his mother, to the mystic.

“Ah, no. Another one.” thought the mystic, to himself. 

“I can tell you,” he said, in the kindest way he could.

“Tell me. Tell me.” the mother begged. “Tell me why this happened to my son.”

The mystic, who had been wide awake that night, had watched the killing chick fly high into the sky, a higher flight than he had ever seen any peacock take before.

Then, he had simply let himself fall, and did not spread his wings to catch himself.

“Your son killed himself.” he stated, simply, kindly, gently.

This did not console the mother. 

She sobbed, and sobbed. The mystic waited with her, gently, for this wave of the grief to pass. 

“Why?” she asked, when her body had stopped shaking. “Why?”

“Your son was a bad bird.” stated the mystic, not unkindly.

“Yes,” the mother agreed. “But surely he didn’t deserve... he only killed snakes! Never a bird!”

“Why did he kill them?”, asked the mystic. “You knew him well. Tell me.”

The mother hesitated.

“Well... to eat them, and...” 

She couldn’t say it.

“For fun?”, supplied the mystic.

“Yes,” said the mother, with a weary heart, and damp eyes. “For fun.”

“Then that is perhaps why.”

“But he’d done it before! He’d done it his whole life! Why now?! What changed?!”, cried the mother.

Ignoring “his whole life,” the mystic supplied an answer.

“Perhaps he met a snake... who was kind to him, before he passed.”

This confused the mother, deeply. 

In fact, she was at a loss for words.

The mystic smiled softly, remembering earlier times. 

“A snake... who was kind, to a peacock?” she asked, like she was but a chick.

The mystic’s heart rose, and fell, and rose again. Of course, there was hope for this one. 

“They exist, you know.” he said. 

“I...” began the mother, confused.

“You need time. I understand.”

This, the mystic knew, was the end of the conversation.

The mother left the nest of the mystic in a daze, as many of the mystic’s visitors did. The other peacocks gave her a wide, respectful berth as she passed.

When she was gone, the mystic turned to himself. 

“Why did he go that way?” he wondered.

“His pain. It was too great. He saw no choice but to do it himself.”  

He pondered this, for just a moment.

“What made it that way?”

He thought of the broken body he had seen, and the exceeding emptiness of his dead eyes, and the many birds - especially the chicks - who would need words, any words, to make sense of what they had witnessed. 

He thought of the life of the proud, stupid, clever chick, who had never believed, and always questioned.

“Perhaps he did meet a kind snake. Perhaps... a kind word, from a strange place, was all it took to throw his universe into doubt.” thought the mystic.

“That... and the wondering.”

The mystic made a face. That dead bird, as a chick, had never visited his nest. He had never learned how to live with the wondering. 

The mystic, whose life was all about wondering, shook his head, crest bobbing with the motion. He couldn’t help his judgement, but then, this kind of wondering was not for all birds either, was it? He had been, and would be, judged in turn.

“There were things left unresolved,” the mystic told himself. 

“He’ll get... another chance.”

The mystic didn’t know this. Not all the birds believed they came back, as something new, after they were gone. Indeed, not even the mystic believed this, not all the time.

He just had a feeling.

Whether it was right, or wrong, it simply happened.