#she needs that rotting boy within her sight at all times

[hatchetmode]

Hello managerboy nation

[lookatmysillies]

Before Round 17 - Himei POV

Himei didn't want to do this.

But she had made this mistake before.

She'd made the mistake when she scorned Hayate's idea on how to get rid of an opponent before ever hitting the stage when Tallis was still alive. She'd been so blind to the realities of this competition - of this world. Morality slipped through her fingers like water in cupped hands, draining between the gaps of her fingers no matter how hard she tried to hold it there. When she left solitary confinement for the second time in the span of a few weeks, the last drops of it dried up from her skin.

Sometimes she dreamt about Min. Most of the time they were dancing, just like they'd done on stage back when it was still Round 4, not Round 6, Round 7, Round 17 now, time caving in on itself and leaving the flesh to rot. They danced on the vast floor of an orchestra hall while Tallis played his violin, perched on a stool on the stage with his music stand before him, eyes closed in serenity. Tov and Daiki sat in the crowd watching. Dian's voice called her name at a distance, never visible but always heard, and then he called Nyx's name, alternating back and forth, back and forth, tick, tock.

Himei and Min stepped to the music, and Min was always smiling, so much so that it unsettled Himei. Sometimes she had blood on her face. Sometimes Himei had blood on her hands and she tried to let go of Min, afraid to get the stuff all over her too, but she held on tighter. They were locked in a dance like schoolgirls until someone had a bullet in their head.

I thought about poisoning Min before your round, Hayate had told her, and so casually, too. Himei recalled briefly thinking that it could've been for the best. Min wouldn't have had to be scared in her final moments.

She quickly wrote it off, because Min deserved a chance; she did.

But the idea stuck in her head leading up to Tallis's round. And she didn't act.

And he died.

Faith. She tried to rely on faith when Tov went up against Minori, and it worked. Faith. She had to have faith in herself when she went up against Noora; she wouldn't hurt her to pave the way for herself. Faith. She tried so hard to have faith as Tov's second round approached.

Leona had warned her that all eyes were on Tov, and not all of them wanted Tov to survive. Some wanted her dead. Some probably wished her captured for interrogation.

Tov is the best of anyone in this competition, she reminded herself when she couldn't sleep night after night, staring at her dark ceiling and left with her thoughts. She leads in points. She's the face of the show. They can't write her off like they tried to do to me.

Then she was reminded of the sight of Tallis falling limp on the stage, and her will crumpled.

Lark was a plain boy. He wasn't particularly eye-catching in appearance. He was quiet and observant. He looked... he looked harmless. Sweet, even.

Just like Tallis.

Himei chickened out every time she thought up a plan to poison Lark. It wouldn't be a walk in the park, but it wouldn't be horribly difficult. She was heavily monitored - more so than everyone here already was - but every system had its cracks. Hayate knew that, and he knew how to expose them.

He thought he did, anyway.

Himei wasn't worried about the consequences she could face. She'd rather die doing something to try and ensure her friend's safety than stand around complacently like she did when Tallis needed her most. She didn't care about what would happen to her. Only her conscience held her back. She wouldn't do it. She couldn't.

But the day of Round 17 came...

Himei panicked.

And single-mindedly, she dropped a quick-dissolve tablet in Lark's beverage at breakfast while he was gone to use the bathroom, nerves clearly making him feel ill. It was invisible within seconds. Hayate had been right. If you need it, only use it once or they'll know. Even once is a risk. Don't take it lightly.

Himei calmly moved on to sit with Tov. She ate a bite of mash. Sipped her own beverage. Felt the color drain from her face.

"Himei?" Tov's voice was careful, gentle. It had been since they kissed. "Are you alright?"

Himei made to stand, a sick churning in her gut. She needed to dump it out. She needed to get rid of it. She couldn't do this, she couldn't—

Lark had returned, and he'd already drunk half the glass to help calm his stomach.

Himei's own stomach sank like a stone.

"Himei?"

Tov couldn't think anything was wrong. Not now. Even if she did have this one in the bag now, she still had to give this performance her all.

On shaking legs, Himei sat back down, white as a sheet.

A shaky smile curved her mouth.

"I'm fine."

Later, she puked up all of the breakfast she'd forced herself to eat.

Uh oh. The girlfailure did a bad thing. @season39 Posting this now since the final results are in

@kamersona and I chatted about this when the round began, so here it is! The poison didn't take full effect until the performance, so Lark still made it to the stage, but he felt sick from more than just nerves leading up to it and during. At some point maybe he just... crumpled. And even the aliens are confused.

Anyway, Lark and Noora belong to them, Tov belongs to @ivanttakethis, Min belongs to @starry-skiez, Daiki belongs to @daiki1k, and Dian and Nyx belong to @rockwgooglyeyes. Himei hasn't been able to be with her bestie Dian much since the season started due to the isolation she faces as a contestant (and a rebellious one at that) but I see him as this constant voice of reason in her head telling her nooooo don't poison the innocent bird boy

[orions-choker]

+:★:+* Chapter Seven: Welcome Home +:★:+*

It was decidedly depression, that's what her friends told her. Y/N was no stranger to depression but this felt different. There was no perpetual sadness, just a heavy fatigue both physical and mental. Her whole world seemed distorted by a murky gray veil.

James had made her stick out the rest of the tour with them, too worried to not have her within his sight at all times. She made little effort to protest. She was sure it was just the cold weather getting to her, making her tired. She would feel better when the sun reared its head for her again.

She hadn’t moved from her bed in a couple days now, occasionally sitting up to rewind her tape and keep the tv perpetually playing. She wasn’t hungry enough to get off the bus either as much as the boys tried. They had been kind enough to bring her leftovers. Most of them anyways. Kirk hadn’t spoken to her since her drunken rant.

A gentle knock against her door barely stirred her. Her head rolled from one side of her pillow to the other, eyes locked on the door. She sighed before calling out. “Come in.” Her voice was raspy and dry. Slowly it slid open, a streak of light illuminating a spot on her floor. She hadn’t realized how dark the room was.

“Hey sunshine, want to come watch the show tonight?” Her brother's face peaked in the room. The nickname seemed comical now. It was kind he asked her this despite her consistent refusal. James stepped in the room, shutting the door behind him and sitting on the edge of the bed. He looked rough too, his facial hair was growing in, it was unusual to see him like that.

Y/N hummed before shaking her head. “No thank you, I don't think I'm ready tonight.” It was her excuse every time. “I don’t feel good.” She turned away from him once more to avoid his disappointed expression.

James' heavy hand came to rest on her thigh through her thick blanket. “Y/N…” He trailed off gruffly. “Why don’t you get up and shower, you might feel better.” He prompted her hopefully. She was acutely aware of just how greasy her hair was at the moment, the long strands tangled into rats nests, probably matts. She really needed that haircut. “Honestly, it's not a request.” The sternness in his voice surprised her. “You don’t have to come to the show if you decide you still don’t want to but you can’t rot away.”

“I’m not rotting.” Y/N bit back at him with the last of her energy. Reluctantly she shuffled from beneath her covers, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against her bare feet and she hissed. James was quick to help her up, her legs shaky after weeks of not being used. She leaned on him as he pushed her door open.

It was the first time she was exposed to the rest of the bus since they boarded once more. This one had a different set up, the shared bathroom no longer resided outside her door, no it was on the opposite end of the bus. She would have to parade her pathetic state in front of the others. She almost stopped walking at the thought.

The two siblings entered the living area, the warm cracklings of laughter died at the sight of her. Typical, she thought. She brought down the mood of any room she was in lately. She refused to look at them, keeping her eyes trained on the floor as she shuffled forward. “Can you bring me clean clothes?” She sighed defeated as she entered the small bathroom.

Her brother nodded at her, closing the door behind him leaving her alone. She turned to the mirror hesitantly. Okay maybe she was rotting. Her skin was almost translucent, save for the deep purple bags beneath her glassy red eyes. Her lips were chapped and dusty. Her hair was just as bad as she thought though, there would be a lot of detangling necessary to fix this. Quickly she turned away from the zombie that stared back at her and started the shower.

As she removed her old and frankly smelly pajamas she noticed how loosely they hung off her frame. She sighed at the sorry state she was in and stepped under the warm stream. It took an insane amount of scrubbing her skin to get rid of the grimy feeling. Her skin was raw and red by the end of it. Half a bottle of conditioner later and some rather large chunks of hair in her brush had her mane tamed. She wasn’t sure how long she had been standing there for but the water had run cold now. Begrudgingly she admitted she felt better.

Set aside for her on the counter were real clothes. James the cheeky bastard had brought her actual jeans and a shirt rather than the pajamas she had been living in. She noticed her old pile of clothes on the floor had been removed as well. She smiled ever so slightly at the sweet gesture.

There was more warmth to her skin now, her hair smooth and shiny once more. It did little for her other shortcomings though. She hardly looked normal. Stepping back into the living room she couldn’t avoid the prying sets of eyes looking at her now. “Feel better?” James’s voice sounded from beside her. She couldn’t look away from Kirk, his big eyes swimming with worry as he looked at her. It was almost infuriating.

Y/N picked at her fingers awkwardly. “Yeah,” She mumbled, her head dropping allowing her to be concealed by her hair like a curtain. “I’ll come…to the show tonight.” She sighed begrudgingly, knowing that was truly what James had been asking her.

Lars’s arms around her caused her to screech in shock, With surprising strength he picked her up in a bear hug. “There's my girl.” He shook her with an excited aggression. She could smell the booze on his breath as well. “Enough of this moping around shit.” He grinned as he let go of her.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes as she nodded at him. She moved to sit on the far side of the couch, Jason serving as the barrier between her and Kirk. She pulled her knees up to her chest as she curled into a ball. Jason smiled down softly at her offering her a sip of his water. She accepted gratefully. As the cool liquid swirled past her lips she realized how long it had been since she drank anything.

Like a deprived animal she crushed the bottle, gasping for air as she finished it. Jason stared at her mouth agape. She smiled sheepishly at him. “Sorry, I...needed that, let me get you another one.” She offered, moving to stand once more.

Quickly he placed a heavy hand on her shoulder, shaking his head with kind eyes. “No it’s fine I’ll get us some more.” His voice was soft against her ears, unlike her brother's growls and Lars’s yelling. As Jason stood up, Y/N glanced towards Kirk. His eyes were trained on her, mouth opening and closing as if he wanted to say something. Suddenly a cold bottle was pressed into her hands once more. She smiled up at the other, taking small sips now as he sat back down.

“Thank you.” She whispered to the other, resting her head against the back of the couch. She watched from the corner of her eye as Kirk and Jason picked up their conversation from earlier. She envied their closeness, in her absence it was apparent they had become a duo. The way Kirk’s arm wrapped around his shoulder, Jason's slightly deeper laugh echoing off the walls of the bus. She wanted that, wanted to be a part of it. She didn’t ignore the way Jason seemed to stumble just a bit over his words around Kirk either.

Y/N frowned and looked away, instead casting her glance to her brother and Lars. It seemed empty, just the two of them sitting there. She didn’t want to think too hard about the missing presence. James seemed more tense around Lars lately and it made her think maybe best friends were never meant to last.

“Alright fuckers lets roll out.” James startled her a little as he stood up from the table, walking towards the door of the bus. Quickly Y/N gathered her bag, ensuring she had her sketchbook tucked away beside her. She trailed behind, the last to step off and on to the road. The cool winds of the Canadian winter chilled her skin. An involuntary shiver ran across her spine.

There was a sudden heaviness around her shoulders. She looked up in surprise, seeing Jason placing his leather jacket around her, leaving him with bare arms in nothing but a tank top. “I’m okay Jase you need this more.” She protested, moving to shrug it off her shoulders before he stopped her with a firm grip.

“I’m good Y/N, y’know the last thing we need is you getting sick.” Jason smiled lazily at her as he slowed his pace to walk beside her. “How are you doin?” He asked her softly, shoving his hands deep in the pockets of his jeans.

She couldn’t help the way her eyes drifted ahead to Kirk, watching his long dark curls bounce excitedly as they entered the back doors to the gig. “Oh, Y’know…” She trailed off stopping just short of the threshold. She took a deep breath, the cold air burning her lungs.

Jason’s sympathetic nod did little to comfort her. “Yeah I think I know.” He looked off towards the boys. “Did you guys break up? If you uh don't mind me asking.” She could tell he had been waiting to ask that question.

“No.” She smiled sadly. “We were never a thing…like that.” She ignored the surprised raise of Jason’s eyebrows. “I love him though…loved him? I don’t know, he's my best friend.” She watched longingly as Kirk hung the strap of his guitar across his neck. She didn’t know why she was telling Jason all this, maybe it was easier, he didn’t know them back when they were good. “After Cliff…everyone fell apart, I just thought me and him were stronger than that.”

A warmth flooded her body as she was tugged into Jason's side. It was unfamiliar the feeling of his arms around her, but not unpleasant. She returned the gesture “Grief does shitty things to people.” He pulled back to look at her, really truly look at her. His eyes seemed to bore into the very core of her being. She was seen in a way she hadn’t been in a long time. She felt small, and scared tears welling up in her eyes as she looked back. “You guys are gonna be okay.” He assured her.

For whatever reason Y/N was inclined to agree with him, for the first time in a while the room seemed just a bit lighter, a bit more vibrant as he smiled down at her. She got it now, the reason Kirk gravitated towards Jason over her. He was the embodiment of comfort. How could she ever blame him for being close to Kirk. “Thanks Jase.” She mumbled, wiping at her watery eyes with the heel of her palm. “Kick ass out there tonight, kay?”

Her head turned towards Kirk as he took a sip from his drink, placing it down and moving to the side stage, waiting to go on. Without thinking she moved forward, talking long strides towards him and grasping onto his hand. He turned to her, eyes wild and mouth slightly agape. Y/N crashed forward into him, uncaring of the guitar separating them. His arms came to wrap around her instantly, surprising her with the force of his grip on her.

They stayed like that, silently for a long moment before the thrum of the opening music rumbled under their feet. “Don’t let go yet.” Kirk whispered into her ear, fingers tightening against the leather of Jason's jacket still slung across her back.

“You gotta go play, I'll be right here waiting for you, Like I always should have been.” Y/N’s lip wobbled as she spoke. It was her fault too, for not being here.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

[lewis-winters]

I know I should be working on other WIPs-- and just working in general-- but I watched The Old Guard again yesterday so here, have the Winnix TOG Canon Divergence AU

tw for: depictions of death, the effects of mustard gas, gore, trauma, and angst!

"Stop touching it."

Dick doesn't. In fact, just to be annoying-- though mostly on reflex-- he brushes past the newly formed scar of Lewis's brow one more time, prodding and poking until finally, fed up, Lew waves his hand away with a weak growl. "You'll open it back up."

Ah. That gets Dick to back off, pulling away abruptly like he'd been scalded. And maybe he has. After all, there's blood on his mind, now. A memory both too fresh to do anything but hurt; but a situation too resolved to feel anything but indignation at his own continued terror.

It's been nearly a millennia since the beginning of their renewed existence, and while they know their lot of second chances are bound to run out one day, surely the familiarity with Death should have settled in their old bones by now. Yet, when She comes, She brings with her all the fanfare that accompanies all finality. Almost immortality does not always warrant camaraderie with pain and grief.

They were luckier this time, at least.

They hadn't been as eager to join this war as they had been the last. Not that he'd been eager to join that war, either. But just like all things, Dick's need for a cause called out to Lewis' need to make sure Dick doesn't lose his goddamn mind fighting until he drops. And so, in the midst of the 1910s, they managed to find themselves spending long nights in the deep, damp French trenches, huddled together in the dark. For two and a half years, they lived like that, shaking apart with fear, both real and imagined, as the rats nibbled on their fingers and infections slowly overtook their lungs and toes. Any warrior worth their salt would know that it's not the fighting that fucks you over, but the waiting in between. The rotting wounds left to fester. The fear that threatened to eat you whole from within, if the bullets about you didn't get to you first. Together, they passed days watching their boys die, either from sickness or bullets or both, their corpses stacked around them so high, in the dark they looked like fortress walls, caging them in as they waited for the moment it would all come toppling down.

Then, the gas came pouring in.

Lewis had taken the brunt of it, in the end, ripping his gas mask off in a desperate attempt to save what was left of Dick's face. Neither of them had enough sense at the time to hear him scream in agony, clawing at his eyes until they were nothing but pulp underneath his fingernails; but the echoes of it would have a chance to ring in Dick's ears anyway. The screaming didn't stop in France.

And it took Lew years to regain his old self, in both nerves and sight; and it took even longer than that for Dick to stop dreaming of scar tissue, gnarled and twisted and angry red, in place of dark brown eyes. The damage healed a lot slower than either of them have ever experienced before, and required more outside help than either of them were comfortable with. By the time the last of Lewis' sight had been restored to him, a whole decade and several new identities had gone by, and Dick had done his best to promise: no more fighting.

They made it through another decade before he broke that one. It barely felt like a blink of an eye.

And now, here they are again. Huddled together, blanketed by dark night, with each other's blood once again under their fingernails, a new scar on Lewis' forehead, and the tangible memory of a crater in the back of his head, where the bullet found its exit and his brains had spattered out of his skull.

"Hey," Lewis breathes, sensing the dark turn Dick's thoughts have gone and reaching out for him, touching his face with cold fingertips. "I'm sorry. That was a bad joke."

Yes. It was. But Dick is not going to reprimand him for it. He's learned that jokes are Lew's best defense against the weight of their prolonged existence. Just like drink. Just like nicotine. Or just like Dick himself, his only lone companion in this casually cruel world. How could Dick ever deny him this?

Tilting their heads together, Dick guides his lips to the new scar, and resolutely tries not to think about how much longer Lew bears the marks of his deaths, and what that might mean for him. "It'll be gone tomorrow," he says, more to himself than Lew. "You'll see. Like brand new."

"Like brand new," Lewis echoes. Resigned. Going boneless as he leans all his (dead) weight into Dick's arms and buries his face in his neck. "Always brand new."

Even against the heat of Dick's skin, Lew stays cold. Dick doesn't think he's ever known a time when he was warm.

--

Dick and Lewis were made immortal sometime between 58 and 50BC, when Rome waged war against Gaul, as explained in this deleted line: "Lewis was not made for warrior-hood like Dick had been, having gone from the luxury afforded to him by his roman senator father's fortune to a miserable roman centurion on the back of a single mistake alone. He'd known almost nothing the first time he'd fallen under Dick's Gaulic blade; that his own sword had pierced Dick's chest at the same time was a mere fluke he's since been unable to replicate."

[beneathashadytree]

Hey! I saw in the rules that you prefer romantic love to platonic love, but it's always worth a try, right? Well, can I get little Levi with a mother-reader who will find him instead of Kanny and give him a little better childhood?

OUR HOME - LEVI ACKERMAN & READER

Warnings : this is purely platonic & familial, mentions of death and grime in general, implied PTSD, this is not proofread, reader is female and acts as Levi’s mother!

Genre : fluff (but some angsty parts)

Word count : 1.2K words

Additional notes : Hi nonnie! Normally I don’t write for female readers, but since the premise in this is quite different I was quite okay with it. I do occasionally write platonic fics, by the way! This request gave me the opportunity to think a while about the possibility of Levi being found by someone with motherly instincts and all the love to give (and I think I cried a little). Hope you like this!💗

Tip jar if you’d like to buy me a Ko-Fi!

Masterlist

It was impossible for her to not notice the kid that managed to melt into the shadows on the walls and the corners of the room

After all, he made his presence so scarce that it made him all the more visible, and her eyes couldn’t help but soften at the sight of his lifeless eyes, unblinking as they stared at the ground in front of him

His emaciated figure brought a pang in her chest; a starved, dirty child no more than a few years old, curled in the darkness of a room that reeked of the stench of rot and decay

Speaking to him proved to be fruitless, as he only ever turned his empty eyes to look at her through his long, greasy bangs, without any other sign to show that he’d even understood

Still, when she said that she was taking him away to somewhere safe, there wasn’t much of a reaction from him except for the slow blinking, and the finalized turn of his head away from her as soon as she was done speaking, which was enough to tell her that he had no qualms he wanted or felt the need to express

First things first—she had to give him a long, clean scrub, to determine whether or not the grime and filth had hidden any wounds or illnesses that she should be made aware of

Her place on the surface was a quaint little cottage on the edge of the town near Wall Sina, and she barely had enough space to take a child in

But after having heard from her brother (who’d secretly frequented the brothel at times) that a child had been abandoned in a room where his mother had died all alone, she couldn’t help but take the trip to the Underground and swear to herself that she’d do anything within her capabilities to save the boy

As a simple baker, she didn’t exactly have the world to give in terms of finances and services, but she’d be damned if she didn’t try her very best to take him in

And so, for the first time in her life, she actually invested in a proper bathtub, seeing as she had an inkling that the child—Levi, she’d learned his name was after he’d croaked it out after a few minutes of her probing—wouldn’t have been too keen to bathe in the communal of the town, where all the adult men were

And besides, she doubted he currently had the strength in his arms to prop himself up for longer than a few seconds at a time; a fact that was proved right when he staggered on the way to the dining table after he’d cleaned himself of the dirt that had been caked on his skin

Gaunt as he looked, she couldn’t help but optimistically scoop potatoes and bread onto his plate (though, as was to be expected, he wasn’t able to stomach much after having been starved of food for so long)

Perhaps the trickiest part of the day was getting him to fall asleep at night, after she’d managed to hurriedly set up another makeshift bed in her bedroom with the help of her brother, until she could afford to set up a proper space for him in the unfurnished room she’d been using as a storage space for years

She sympathized with Levi, who must’ve been wracked with nightmares of the past couple of months he’d endured, and must’ve found it difficult to fall asleep

Exhausting as it was to wait for him to tire himself out with his own thoughts, she didn’t mind the wait, and made it clear from the inviting space beside her that she was willing to hear his worries out, should he ever want to confide in her

Though as the days of routine turned into weeks and months, it became clear that Levi simply had little to say in all cases, and showed even less inclination to divulge anything on his mind

She’d been slowly increasing the portions of his food, silently urging him to eat more at mealtimes, and with the rate at which he quietly tried to help around the house, he often ate ravenously after having exerted so much more energy than he’d been used to

Though there was one terrible habit it seemed that Levi had developed, and that was an overwhelming urge to clean himself and keep his surroundings spotless

He’d often scrub his skin raw and red while in the bath, tirelessly try to dust away the shelves even when she herself couldn’t spot a single fleck on the surface, and unfailingly offer to help with the dishes instantly after every meal, though he could barely even reach past the sink

His short stature alerted her to the fact that his malnourishment had probably aided in it, and that was one of the reasons she so eagerly tried to feed him, though she knew it wasn’t very logical

Of course being a baker came in handy, and it soon became a well-loved routine for them to sit at opposite ends of the dining table, with Levi biting into a buttered scone and holding a cup of tea that comically dwarfed his hand

Perhaps the most difficult of all was forming a healthy relationship between them; one where he felt safe enough regardless of whether or not he felt the need to open up his heart

More importantly than anything, she just wanted to make sure that he could feel the affection she felt for him and would always offer him

She would not be deluded into thinking that she could ever replace Kuchel (whose name she found out while mending a tattered handkerchief that Levi had been so adamant in taking care of until it had ripped at the edges), but she could not help but slowly love him as though he were her own

It wasn’t hard to realize that his quietness and nonchalance was only a front; that he was a much kinder kid than he’d ever let on when he was so busy seeming so much older than his years

After all, whenever she fell ill, he was instantly there to usher her into bed with a scowl, though the way he wiped away at her sweat and pressed cool rags onto her forehead showed that he was anything but annoyed

His concern was apparent, and it perhaps was caused by his own lasting paranoia from when Kuchel had fallen ill, but in all cases it showed just how deeply he cared

Levi wasn’t exactly the most polite boy she’d ever seen, but he was good at heart, and exuded a sort of purity that came out in clumsy gestures

Helping out in the house without her ever asking for nor expecting it, a quiet but no less honest thank you after a hearty meal, a bunch of wildflowers that mysteriously popped up in a cracked vase whenever she seemed down; it was clear he’d grown fond of her over time

Though she was barely in her early 30s herself and had never foreseen his presence in the house, she could no longer imagine her home without Levi—and in her tentative praises and careful hugs he’d slowly grown to melt into, she could see that her love had truly saved him from the pits of hell

And really, nothing in the world could beat that incredible feeling of being a mother in all the ways that mattered

Taglist: @blondeboyfriend

[elrielbaby]

ACOFAS - more findings

I do plan on doing a series overview once I’ve finished ACOSF but this book is so full of little seeds I need to make another post about it.

In the span of two pages Feyre remarks twice how the twins spy for both Rhys & Azriel/how they were trained by Azriel. (Pages 2 & 4)

It’s also mentioned extremely early within this book how L*cien doesn’t seem interested in bridging the gap between himself & Elain, they hadn’t even come within touching distance since that final battle & he spends more time out of Velaris than in it (paraphrasing but that’s the gist)

Nuala, full of whispers & shadows

I’ve mentioned already, but Cassians first chapter was chock full of foreshadowing, as he spoke about Ramiel, the BR, what he did to the people who abused his mother & he briefly mentions Nesta.

Also, Ramiel felt alive - awake & watchful & Cass was unable to resist its ancient summons which, uhm, red flag.

Mor is a terrible gift giver & idk why but it’s funny to me.

Mor brings up Az giving Elain truth-teller, but I believe the context of this conversation is super interesting. Feyre asks Mor if she thinks Azriel would have give up truth-teller, Mor responds he gave it to Elain & when Feyre is quick to say she gave it back, Mor just hums. I am now also humming.

Also, Feyre says she pressed TT back into Azriels hands just as he’d pressed it into hers (🫶)

Elain is Elain (I take this to mean, Elain will be something different)

Nesta is Illyrian (I mean we all know how SF goes)

Elain is too polite to send L away, even on a normal day. She just ignores him until he gets the hint & leaves.

Mor in Hewn City notes ‘there was no light in this place’ & ‘it was the darkness of rotting things, of decay. The smothering darkness that withered all life’ and BOY OH BOY do I have some thoughts on those quotes, pertaining to a certain flower girl who’s powers, may or may not be life, who seemed as if the light had been sucked out of her in HC? I don’t know how likely it is, and I do think it’s more likely that they dressed Elain badly & made her not make much of an effort so that Nesta really stood out in that moment, but I think its interesting!

I’ve spoken about Rhys’ chapter that is HEAVY on the Azriel front but I also think it’s interesting how Elain is brought up in his chapter, similarly to how Nesta was brought up (albeit briefly) in both Rhys’ first chapter with Cassian, and Cassians own first chapter.

There is a very strong parallel between Azriels bonus chapter POV & Cassians second chapter where he visits Emeries shop which I will post separately but it’s insane how word-for-word it pretty much is.

In a Feyre chapter where she actually physically sees Elain for the first time in the book, we have that parallel I posted earlier about Elain & Azriel being given the time to open up (again I’m paraphrasing - actual quote is a couple of posts down)

We also have ‘veils of steam drifting past her shoulders from the roasted rosemary potatoes as if they were Azriels shadows’

We also have, Elain going still at the sight of Az, her throat bobbing & him taking the dish of potatoes from her as he says to her ‘voice soft as midnight’ 🫶

Mor also tenses during this interaction AND I WANT TO KNOW WHY because we all know she doesn’t want him like that, so WHY.

When Azriel makes Cassian wait for Elain, Feyre notes the command in his voice. That is the second time in this book that it’s hinted Azriel has some sort of inherent dominance.

Mor gaping & Cassian gawking at Azriel is giving Truth-Teller scene & again I want to know why

Will Mor kill Kier? It has been mentioned so many times

Azriel is mentioned as being at the window four times in two pages.

When Cassian tries to bet on wether L*cien will show up & Azriel refuses to bet (hello, when Cassian doesn’t want to bet on the Illyrian women training because it means too much) when Cass pushes, Azriel brings up Nesta, as if to shut him up & stop him from prying. Sneaky.

Also, Rhys says that Azriel is better liar than him & considering Rhys is a pretty good liar it’s making me question some things y’know.

Clock chimes 8 & Elain enters the sitting room as if summoned & sits by the window (which is apparently typical for her)

Also, L*cien being more at home with the BoE, sitting by the fire which casts him in reds & golds. He can’t stand to be in the same room as Elain for two minutes, the way he talks about Vassa is very interesting considering his ‘mate’ is right there & he does indeed glance at Elain as he speaks of her, as if he doesn’t know wether he should. Also, when speaking of Graysen, L*cien does seem to have a slight problem with it, but Feyre notes ‘not from any jealousy or threat’ 🤔

Even in the middle of winter Elain was a bloom of colour & sunshine.

Elain is looking out the windows, Azriel approaches her at these windows.

Elain is wearing Amethyst.

Elain laughs at Rhys’ joke about modelling lingerie which surprises Feyre & she also later shots whisky.

Azriels shadows noted as twining twice in this book.

Purple & gold flashed - Elain.

Nesta, sword straight spine (again, we all know how her book goes lol), a Queen without a throne, portrait of Queenly arrogance & a mighty vengeful Queen. Part of me wonders if this is her controlling the dread trove but I’m not sure it is. My current theory is that she will become ‘Queen’ of the Valkyries but that role is more that of General. We shall see.

[snowbellewells]

Self Promo Sunday: “Scaling the Walls”

Originally, I started this one before the season four finale actually aired (though the idea and set-up were based on the promos) and I didn’t finish it until that episode had shown. Still, this is more my own idea of how the “Emma being trapped in a tower and needing a rescue” plot could have played out. I revisited it the other day to make cover art, and then I thought that someone else might also enjoy it on Self-Promo Sunday!

Summary: In the Author’s altered storybook reality, a young boy who believes will still inspire an honorable deckhand to rescue the princess locked in the tower - the princess he is meant to find no matter the land or time. {An “Operation Mongoose” divergent CS one shot, with some heroic Henry for good measure}

Also available on AO3 and ff.net, if that is your preference...

by: @snowbellewells  (TutorGirlml on ff.net)

Wave upon wave of pain racks her body, radiating through unendingly, nearly rocking Emma Swan off her feet. The only thing keeping her from falling to the floor in an unconscious heap are the chains binding her hand and foot to the stone wall of her tower prison. Her eyes slam shut, and she tries fruitlessly to press her hands to her brow, only to have the motion arrested halfway through by the shortness of her bonds. It feels as if her head may split in two if she cannot exert some pressure to keep her senses together, but all her efforts are for naught. She is trapped and will remain so, no end to her agony in sight.

A strangled scream rises from her throat, pouring past her lips out the window into the trackless woods surrounding her cell and reverberating off its walls. She feels her heart wrenching and shattering as this psychotically unrecognizable version of Snow White plunges her hand once more into Emma's chest and grasps, squeezing and trying to pull out her own daughter's heart. The fact that this is her mother, made bloodthirsty and malicious by some wretched curse, only makes the torture worse, as the face whose kindness Emma has always treasured grins wickedly and Snow throws back her head with an evil laugh. "Oh darling! If you think you will ever defeat me, you're living in a dream world. You as the uprising’s pathetic hope?!? Their promised Savior?"  The words are hissed right in Emma's face as the clawed fingers squeeze her pounding organ tighter and jerk at it again, "It’s almost laughable. I am the Queen, and you will rot in this tower, unless you relinquish your lovely heart, and your magic, and submit to my control."

Emma is practically trembling with pain and exertion, sweat running down her forehead and stinging in her eyes, fists clenched at the effort it takes merely to retain awareness through this newest onslaught, petrified by what might happen to her if she slips away. She bites almost through her lower lip, trying not to scream or cry anymore – knowing it only brings this twisted version of Snow pleasure. She has also long since ceased trying to remind her mother of the truth, as it also brought only pain at previous attempts. It hardly bears mentioning that her magic is either not working or no longer accessible to her. She is certain that this Snow won't take that for an answer. Still, can't the other woman see that if Emma had control of her powers she wouldn't stay here at their mercy? Tears fall from Emma's eyes silently at the cruel, unknowing stare focused on her, but she holds back any sound.

The new Evil Queen twists her hand within Emma's chest, and Emma is sure she must be dying. A howl of agony tears from her throat against her will and echoes in horrible crescendo. The sounds of abject despair and torment go winging out the lone window of the tower to be heard for miles around by those who ignore the cries of a rumored hero supposedly suffering at the Queen's hand.

The heartless slave version of Prince Charming steps forward from where he waits in the shadows, hand outstretched in supplication as he urges his Queen. "Your Majesty!" he pleads fervently. "Stop, please! You'll kill her at this rate and never harness her magic for yourself!"

His dark haired mistress darts a dangerous, crackling, narrow-eyed look over her shoulder at him against the far wall, pausing only an instant before her hand shoots out and throws him against the solid stone, where he falls incapacitated. "Silence!" Snow White orders needlessly as he seems completely stunned into submission.

Her shuttered, emotionless eyes, venomous and sharp as any serpent's, flick back to her prisoner and gleam with cold intent. "You're going nowhere, Princess," she purrs, the title cruel and mocking with the inflection she gives it. "You'll die a prisoner either way. But how much more you suffer before I can gain your heart and your power is entirely up to you. Tell me now how I can accomplish this, and put yourself out of your misery."

Emma trembles helplessly where she stands; her abused, aching muscles stretched beyond endurance but unable to gain relief. She wants to cry out to Snow that she is not this monster; they need to fight together to escape whatever alternate reality Gold and the Author have plunged them into - despite knowing her plea will do no good. Though she senses she will need her magic before all is said and done, though she knows she must hang onto what strength and sanity she has left, Emma thinks that in this awful moment, if she knew how to give up her powers, she would allow the Queen to have them. She doesn't know where Killian or Henry, or any of the other people she has come to know and care about, are – if they have been brought along in this nightmare as well, if they know themselves, or if they have been changed. All she has seen is the inside of these stone walls and these horrific mockeries that should never be called her parents.

However, Snow White seems to take her quiet helplessness as defiance and she shrieks in wild rage. "Have it your way!" she yells. An almost electric pulse of energy erupts from the other woman's palm, and Emma feels it crawling through her veins, burning and scorching unbearably.

Her howls of helpless agony as she quivers in her restraints overlap on each other in desperate, unending climax, until she finally slumps, boneless and insensate in her chains, lost to the world.

~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Killian Jones does not know how he got himself roped into such a ridiculous venture. He shakes his head in disbelief once more as he looks behind him to the skinny, bedraggled youth with brown hair flopping in his eyes who follows him through the thick undergrowth at the forest's edge – 'more a fool's errand than a hero's journey' his mind insinuates as he recalls the words of the boy on his heels as he had looked up at Killian with a wide open expression of hope.

What had he been thinking, letting his sense of duty move him to follow this child off his ship, away from the harbor, and on this – what had the lad called it? Operation? Yes, that was it…Operation Swan's Rescue. He had thought himself long past dreams of being a dashing hero and undertaking courageous missions for the good of his people. That was all burned away in the ashes of a Pegasus sail and sunk to the depths with Liam's body long ago, when he was another man. Yet, he has never claimed to be wise or cautious, to do what makes reasonable sense, and he was not able to resist this ragamuffin's precocious grin or the somehow familiar twinkle in his big, trusting eyes, and so here they were, quite possibly chasing a mirage, a dream: a princess in a tower needing a champion to save her.

The lad certainly weaves a compelling tale, Killian thinks to himself as he pushes further into the trees and bracken, keeping well off the beaten path. Of course, he has heard the stories; everyone in this section of the kingdom – where the tower is supposed to reside – has heard of the Savior, the lovely being of hope and light magic, somehow born to the Evil Queen and her favorite plaything, then imprisoned by said mother in fear of her daughter's magical power someday overthrowing her reign of terror. Killian himself had always thought them mere fables – fireside tales to charm and entertain. However, this boy seems so sincere, and so desperate, that he finds himself believing the youth's words.

Beyond that hunch, the sense of trust, his mind cannot help but whisper, 'What if?" If there is truly a Savior, a being of Light and Good, who could restore this land to what it once was, to the beautiful, peaceful kingdom of his youth where he remembers running wild in the fields with Liam chasing him laughingly, where he wove daisy chains to take home to his mother and he could still bask in the love of her pleased, quiet smile. If the Evil Queen's rule can be brought to an end, doesn't he owe it to his people, his country, and Liam's memory, to explore every possibility? Isn't it only good form for one in his post to venture forth and make sure? Not only that, but if such a pure innocent is being held captive, if everyone knows and merely leaves her to such a fate…it twists knots of tension in his gut, not letting his mind rest. A fool he may be. He may be walking directly to his death, but his conscience will let him pursue no other course.

They have come to a stop at a running brook – refilling their canteens, slaking their thirst, catching their breaths – when a wretched wail of agony rings out in the air, silencing the birds and echoing off the trees in harsh, violent waves. Killian's eyes meet the lad Henry's, and they both freeze, horrified by the sound of such suffering. The anguish he hears in that cry lets Killian know for certain he was right to follow this quest. He must stop whatever is being done to this prisoner.

They take off at a run, unheeding of their safety or what they may find. Crashing through thorn bushes and grasping vines, panting with exertion, they both nearly go tumbling headlong to the ground when Killian skids to a sudden halt and Henry plows right into his back.

They have dashed into a deserted clearing, and there before them, rising dark and foreboding into the clouds, stands the tower. The grey stones are cracked and jutting, looking as dark and unwelcoming as must have been intended, and though his eyes search frantically along the base, Killian can see no way in.

Both pirate and youth stand frozen in uncertainty for a long stretch, until abruptly the cries of suffering halt, all goes silent, and Killian finds himself desperately jolted forward. He does not know if this will work, but he simply must take action. The imprisoned woman – according to Henry, their last chance – cannot be dead. They cannot be too late. Grasping at the rugged wall as best he can with his one working hand, he wedges his hook into a crack between stones. With one last glance to make sure his young compatriot is still with him, Killian begins to climb the tower.

~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~888~~~

Awareness trickles back to Emma with the scrabbling, scratching sounds of metal scraping along stone. Blinking her eyes blearily and raising her head from where it had slumped awkwardly on her chest, she vaguely determines that the strange scuffling is coming from just outside her prison's single window.

Emma scrunches her brow in confusion, trying to determine what new threat could be coming for her now. She knows that the tower is high, high enough that no fully sane person would attempt to scale its walls. For the few fleeting instants she has been free of her chains in the years it seems she has been held captive here, she was able to see out over the entire forest, well over the tops of the tallest trees.

Just as she is looking fruitlessly around the barren room for something she can defend herself with against this intruder, a metal hook and strong forearm fling themselves in the window and clutch tightly, soon pulling a messily wind-ruffled head of black hair and a belovedly familiar face over with them. Her pirate, whom she had begun to fear herself lost from forever, practically hauls himself though the opening, flopping onto the stone floor, chest heaving with exertion.

"Killian!" she cries out plaintively, so glad to see him that she doesn't even care how girlish and helpless it might make her sound. "You found me!" She begins to run to him, momentarily forgetting her bonds, until the chains jerk her back.

His head shoots up at the sound of her voice, startled blue eyes meeting her gaze. He looks unsure, as if he doesn't know what to make of her awe-filled greeting. Turning quickly in the next moment to stand and return to the window again, he surprises her once more by reaching out his hand to pull someone else up and into the window after him.

Emma's heart swells at the sight of Henry. Both her son and the man she loves are here at last, safe and sound and come to rescue her. Henry doesn't seem to suffer the same confusion that Killian does. Once the man has stopped brushing him off, asking if he is okay, and lets him go, Henry rushes to her with a joyfully relieved shout of "Mom!" and wraps his arms around her – literally bringing warmth and hope back into her cold, lonely false existence.

"You found me," she repeats, a dazed whisper this time, overwhelmed by the belief and determination her son has shown to get here, and the bravery he has exhibited in climbing a tower guarded by the Evil Queen's men, at the risk of his own life – for her sake. She squeezes him tighter, wishing more than she has in all the rest of her time here to be free of the chains so that she can really take her little boy – well, young man now – fully in her arms.

She can only chuckle and shake her head when he grins at her and says exactly what she should have been expecting, "Did you really doubt we would?"

Emma's gaze flicks to Killian again, where he stands back awkwardly watching the reunion. He scratches the spot behind his ear uncertainly, but then he meets her curious, searching glance. She is frozen when their eyes make contact, breath catching with emotion. Not only is he here helping Henry, but he came to her aid even without remembering who she is or what they mean to each other. She wants so badly for him to hold her, for the sort of passionate kiss they have only recently begun to allow themselves to set everything back to rights.

Surprisingly, as the moment stretches on, Emma can see something come over Killian's face. She holds her breath, hoping against hope that somehow what they have, the connection between them, has survived this reboot of their history and who they are in this fictional reality. As she has suffered here alone, afraid she would never see his face, hear his beautiful, lilting voice, or feel his gentle but inflaming touch again, she had come to realize the truth. She loves him with a depth that scares her. She has for a long time, but could never find the words to say it aloud.

Killian tilts his head to the side, beautiful ocean eyes squinting in concentration as he studies her face, almost seeming to look beneath her skin, into her soul. Taking a tentative step forward, he reaches out, taking her hand in his one, gently rubbing soothing fingers over her skin reddened from the heavy shackle. Reaching out with his hook, he smoothes her wild, tangled hair back from her face and over her shoulder; a familiar, intimate gesture he has made several times, whether he realizes it or not. "I know you, Lass. Do I not?" he finally murmurs, eyes searching hers for an answer.

It is as though he has stolen the very breath from her lungs and the words right off her lips. All Emma can do is stare at him, amazed by his unbelievable, inexplicable faith, and nod in affirmation. She can still see wonder and adoration shining from his face, directed at her, even if he isn't sure why. Can he still somehow see what he means to her in her face? Still feel what they have – or echoes of it – despite everything that has been altered? Emma finds herself willing to hope as never before.

Unfortunately, at that moment they are interrupted by the sound of several pairs of booted feet pounding up the steps to her cell, harsh voices calling about intruders and securing the 'mad princess'. All three of them whirl to stare at the heavy door of Emma's cell in alarm, knowing the pirate and young prince can climb back out, but that they have no way to release her from her chains. She can't escape with them.

"Go!" she urges desperately, trying to spur both Henry and Killian on. She cannot bear to think what may happen to them if they are discovered here trying to free her. The guards are getting closer all the time and her heartbeat is pulsing in her throat at the danger to her two most precious loves. "You can't be found here! Please!"

Henry's eyes show understanding beyond his years as he nods his assent. Clasping her hand tightly for a split second, he vows, "We'll be back for you, Mom," before he moves toward the window, swinging one leg over the ledge and preparing to go.

Killian's face shows no such resignation. His look is desperate, frantic to save her. "What happens to you when we go, Love? I cannot leave you to them!"

"You have to, Killian…for now…I'll be alright." She gives him a brave, if tremulous, smile, needing him to be safe, even if she is not.

"No," he breathes, shaking his head and not moving an inch, even when Emma hears the running footsteps halt and instead the dreadful sound of a key turning in the ancient, rusty lock.

Whirling to face the door as it swings open, Emma prays that somehow Killian will slip out the window after Henry in the nick of time, or that some echo of the magic she possesses in their real world will shield him from their malevolent foes. Of course, as they have been ever since she opened her eyes in this parallel universe, her wishes are ignored, and with cries of attack four of the Queen's armed black guards charge forward.

Killian steps in front of Emma swiftly, easily shielding her in a single movement. He pulls the cutlass from his belt and strikes down the first assailant with deadly grace; the movement a slash as quick and sharp as a jagged finger of lightning. The second opponent meets his hook and falls motionless at their feet.

For several tense moments, Emma's breath is stolen watching the lethal accuracy Killian employs, protecting them both flawlessly and without hesitation. He ducks the third attacker's strike, and the guard overshoots, running past them, stumbling and falling just in time for the pirate to parry a fourth henchman's blow. They engage for only the briefest flurry of sword passes before Killian has bested this one as well and kicked the unconscious man away. He turns sharply, on guard with the knowledge that one last aggressor is still waiting.

Emma wants to call out to warn him, spare him the shocked pain she sees flare in his eyes when he finds his last foe, but she can't – not with the guard's hand gripping her throat, cutting off her air and her voice. She shakes her head at her sailor, knowing he won't protect his own safety but merely lunge forward to save her. She puts out a hand in an effort to wave him back, urging him to think for a moment, fight as smart as he has been, but somehow Killian misconstrues her motion and lets his eyes follow her gesture. Perhaps he thought she was reaching out for him in fear, but he is distracted one second too long.

The guard stabs forward, arm pushing stealthily from under Emma's outstretched one. He catches Killian in the side, under his ribs, and then drags the sword blade across and up, slicing a long path through leather and flesh with sickening depth.

Those fathomless blue eyes snap wide in shock and pain and a gasp flies from his lips as Killian's forward stride draws up short. Having achieved his goal, the final guard releases his grip on Emma and flings her away. Emma registers that she is screaming, crying out for Killian, but he doesn't answer, falling to his knees and bringing his hands up disbelievingly to the blood flowing from his side.

"Let that be a lesson to you before considering future attempts at escape," the guard growls roughly. "I'll leave him with you, to be sure you understand the price of crossing our Queen."

The heavy door slams shut again behind him, and Emma stumbles forward, clanking chains and all, to fall beside her pirate, sobbing out his name and pulling his head into her lap, cradling him protectively the best she can with her limited movement, tears falling from her eyes to his cheeks as she bends her head over him, fearing he is already gone, the wound is so bad. "Please…Killian…I'm so sorry…" she murmurs frantically, brushing his dark hair off his forehead, trying to ease his pain and keep him with her.

It isn't long before she feels smaller hands on her shoulders, pulling her into a hug from behind, trying to offer comfort before crouching next to her and attempting to staunch the blood still pouring from Killian's wound.

"Henry?" she questions blearily, confused.

He shrugs, "I just held onto the outside wall right below the window. Luckily they didn't check for anyone else. When the fighting stopped, I crawled back in."

She shakes her head at his daring, but her eyes quickly fly back to her pirate. To her shock, he is also chuckling at her son, though the sound is rough and choking. "There's a lad," he manages teasingly to Henry, before a horrible wracking cough interrupts and she sees blood at the corners of his mouth when he pulls his hand away afterwards.

Emma's tears still fall and she begins whispering apologies in his ear once more. He only shakes his head, "No, Lass…don't….be sorry. You are worth it. You and Henry….will find… a way out…I'm…glad I was…part of it…" His eyes flutter closed and his chest heaves mightily to keep moving up and down.

"Killian?...No!" she cries out when his eyes fail to reopen.

"Mom!" Henry breaks into her panic, his hand on her upper arm pulling her back to her senses. "Mom, you have to kiss him. True Love's Kiss! It'll save him. It has to!"

It seems so farfetched that she hardly dares to hope, but Emma is out of options and desperate not to have Killian slip away in front of her. Tracing a hand along his jaw, she lets her eyes slide shut and leans even closer to his mouth. Just before she presses her lips to his, she whispers as she did once before, "Killian, come back to me."

A disconcerting pull in her stomach and a spinning feeling makes it seem for a minute as if the world has turned upside down and the floor has dropped from under her. Blinking her eyes to look around once the whirling sensation eases, Emma is stunned to find them back in Storybrooke, sprawled inelegantly on the pavement in the middle of Main Street. Her fingers are somehow miraculously twined with Killian's as he sits up beside her, whole and unharmed from the sword wound still fresh in her memory, and her other arm is wrapped tightly around Henry. The chains and her tower prison are gone, and she gapes like a newborn baby at her surroundings. Killian turns to her, a rakish grin on his face, and she knows both realities are in his mind too. "It would appear you saved me, Swan," he teases lightly, but real affection brims in his eyes.

"What would I do without you, Pirate?" she whispers, holding on tighter and trying to keep the quaver from her voice as she burrows into his embrace. It is long past time he heard the words, and suddenly so simple for her to add in a whisper against his heart, "I love you."

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @jennjenn615 @kmomof4 @searchingwardrobes @laschatzi @whimsicallyenchantedrose @jrob64 @apiratewhopines @cosette141 @sotangledupinit @anmylica @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @hollyethecurious @winterbaby89 @wefoundloveunderthelight @stahlop @bdevereaux @justanother-unluckysoul @booksteaandtoomuchtv @xarandomdreamx @xsajax @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @tiganasummertree @optomisticgirl @ultraluckycatnd​ @jonesfandomfanatic​ @the-darkdragonfly​ @donteattheappleshook​ @elizabeethan​ 

[cryptic-paw]

Clutching at Embers

There was a girl who didn’t care for human life

She found humanity fickle and ignorant of the reality of the world

She felt no empathy

Even when she tried to, she fell short of the expected reaction

She could stand in the face of death and not be mortified

In fact, she enjoyed it

The graveyards brought her peace and a sense of serenity

It was the only place she felt she truly belonged

She could live in rotted history and feel her friends only six feet away

Sometimes, she pretended she was one of them, rising from the tomb

Yet, she did not wish to die

She was the only one of her kind

And she had been persecuted for it

Tortured

Chastised

Forced to hide, to play along

And renewed by its vigor time and time again

She would walk against the wind, hair whipping in the gale

And hope someone would notice the warrior in her resolve

Everyone she had let close failed her, but she kept seeking

She took comfort in Death as her companion

One night, she saw a stranger on the sidewalk

What looked like a boy stood still in the middle of the walk

Others walked around him, blind to his passive retaliation

He was staring at her, of that she was certain

Curiosity led her to trail him through a passage of alleys

He was never too far out of sight, knowing full well of her pursuit

She came to an opening of cobblestone, buildings of brick on all sides

The boy had disappeared

Her spine snapped as she swiveled around and around

Maybe I missed something?

She became downtrodden and turned to leave

A force behind grabbed at her and pushed her against the wall with menace

She felt a cold steel at her throat, yet she did not flinch

There was no fear reflected in her eyes as she looked to what the gaslight illuminated

Here were the same eyes

Here was the same urge acted out that she had suppressed for as long as she could remember

Here, in the defined jaw and glistening irises of this boy, she found a recognition

She saw herself

The boy, in the slyness that lay in the corners of the lips and the sunken eyes of this girl, found a recognition he hadn’t thought possible

He saw himself

He could have killed her, but his grip on the blade loosened

She knew he could have killed her, but she did not resent him for it

Snow alighted from the black sheep’s wool above

And they both turned their gaze upward and released an icy breath

Two corpses walked the shadows that night

One to her mausoleum above the streets

The other, to watch her from his shallow grave below

The next day, they found the sunlight burned their skin

So, the boy reached for his knife and threw it into the sun

It ripped in two and withered into nothingness

The light hours were ever cloudy from then on

He watched her in the window all morning

Followed her all afternoon

And when night fell, they went to the graveyard

She got there second and heard whisperings from underground

Entering the vault above it, she silently went down the staircase within and found her roommate lying atop a stone coffin

She was still breathing, her mouth stitched shut with fishing wire

It was all I could find

The boy showed himself from the farthest corner

I know how much you wanted her to shut the fuck up

The girl smiled in gratitude and asked for pliers

I thought we might need them

She took pleasure in yanking every nail from its divot

I always hated the tap tap tapping

Then, the knife plunged into her heart, her thigh, her shoulder, her neck

All by the girl’s hand

I’ve loved the blood the most

The sigh of relief and exhilaration changed her, freed her

She was coated in her slick mess

The voyeur admired the beauty in every drop that landed on the alabaster skin

Run away with me

Two hours later, they were on a train to Nowhere, a cabin all to themselves

The blood hadn’t fully washed away and never would

He always found a drop now and then

The rickety rackety of the steam-power appealed to their better paranoia

They held each other the entire ride, cold and stiff cheeks pressing against the other

They could taste blood on their own tongues

On each other’s tongues

Metallic communion of the worthy

The window became foggy

I can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the train or the heat of the blood

The night grew into night, and then night again

They arrived in Nowhere, the greatest town the world has never seen

He took her by the hand and led her to the dust-ridden streets, the planked homes of old

They breathed in the dry, choking air and took pleasure in knowing that this tumbleweed road was as dead as they were

He took her to see a show

Feathers and corsets and frills and powdered faces dancing

Though none were as pale and fair as the girl

Do you want to see a real show now?

At the witching hour, they crept to the upper chambers

Creaking boards see them past a pounding bedframe

Not that one

Her cries of anguish and non-consent mark her for another

Ten doors down on the right just there

The face was sleeping, still in its powder

She had had no funds that night

The boy stood on the left, the girl on the right

Almost silently, he slit the strumpet’s throat

She woke only to open her eyes wide, then die as the font continued to flow

The door closed on its own in repulsion, to protect the world from the monsters

But as the divine crimson spewed forth from the slice

The boy and girl reveled in the world they had created

There was enough in the young harlot to fill up a sow ten times over

It seemed a never-ending fountain of life

Go ahead, touch

She reached her hand into the stream and was surrounded in a veil of boiling scarlet

I wish someday to cut you like that

She flushed, a thing that did not happen to her very often

Splattered with the sweet cerise, he drew near her in the waterfall

With utter assuredness and no doubt in his mind

He undid her once pristinely white bodice

Watching the red nectar drip down his face, she felt a draw of destiny

She let him take her to the blood-drenched sheets

[crypticpawpoems]

Clutching at Embers

There was a girl who didn’t care for human life

She found humanity fickle and ignorant of the reality of the world

She felt no empathy

Even when she tried to, she fell short of the expected reaction

She could stand in the face of death and not be mortified

In fact, she enjoyed it

The graveyards brought her peace and a sense of serenity

It was the only place she felt she truly belonged

She could live in rotted history and feel her friends only six feet away

Sometimes, she pretended she was one of them, rising from the tomb

Yet, she did not wish to die

She was the only one of her kind

And she had been persecuted for it

Tortured

Chastised

Forced to hide, to play along

And renewed by its vigor time and time again

She would walk against the wind, hair whipping in the gale

And hope someone would notice the warrior in her resolve

Everyone she had let close failed her, but she kept seeking

She took comfort in Death as her companion

One night, she saw a stranger on the sidewalk

What looked like a boy stood still in the middle of the walk

Others walked around him, blind to his passive retaliation

He was staring at her, of that she was certain

Curiosity led her to trail him through a passage of alleys

He was never too far out of sight, knowing full well of her pursuit

She came to an opening of cobblestone, buildings of brick on all sides

The boy had disappeared

Her spine snapped as she swiveled around and around

Maybe I missed something?

She became downtrodden and turned to leave

A force behind grabbed at her and pushed her against the wall with menace

She felt a cold steel at her throat, yet she did not flinch

There was no fear reflected in her eyes as she looked to what the gaslight illuminated

Here were the same eyes

Here was the same urge acted out that she had suppressed for as long as she could remember

Here, in the defined jaw and glistening irises of this boy, she found a recognition

She saw herself

The boy, in the slyness that lay in the corners of the lips and the sunken eyes of this girl, found a recognition he hadn’t thought possible

He saw himself

He could have killed her, but his grip on the blade loosened

She knew he could have killed her, but she did not resent him for it

Snow alighted from the black sheep’s wool above

And they both turned their gaze upward and released an icy breath

Two corpses walked the shadows that night

One to her mausoleum above the streets

The other, to watch her from his shallow grave below

The next day, they found the sunlight burned their skin

So, the boy reached for his knife and threw it into the sun

It ripped in two and withered into nothingness

The light hours were ever cloudy from then on

He watched her in the window all morning

Followed her all afternoon

And when night fell, they went to the graveyard

She got there second and heard whisperings from underground

Entering the vault above it, she silently went down the staircase within and found her roommate lying atop a stone coffin

She was still breathing, her mouth stitched shut with fishing wire

It was all I could find

The boy showed himself from the farthest corner

I know how much you wanted her to shut the fuck up

The girl smiled in gratitude and asked for pliers

I thought we might need them

She took pleasure in yanking every nail from its divot

I always hated the tap tap tapping

Then, the knife plunged into her heart, her thigh, her shoulder, her neck

All by the girl’s hand

I’ve loved the blood the most

The sigh of relief and exhilaration changed her, freed her

She was coated in her slick mess

The voyeur admired the beauty in every drop that landed on the alabaster skin

Run away with me

Two hours later, they were on a train to Nowhere, a cabin all to themselves

The blood hadn’t fully washed away and never would

He always found a drop now and then

The rickety rackety of the steam-power appealed to their better paranoia

They held each other the entire ride, cold and stiff cheeks pressing against the other

They could taste blood on their own tongues

On each other’s tongues

Metallic communion of the worthy

The window became foggy

I can’t tell if it’s from the heat of the train or the heat of the blood

The night grew into night, and then night again

They arrived in Nowhere, the greatest town the world has never seen

He took her by the hand and led her to the dust-ridden streets, the planked homes of old

They breathed in the dry, choking air and took pleasure in knowing that this tumbleweed road was as dead as they were

He took her to see a show

Feathers and corsets and frills and powdered faces dancing

Though none were as pale and fair as the girl

Do you want to see a real show now?

At the witching hour, they crept to the upper chambers

Creaking boards see them past a pounding bedframe

Not that one

Her cries of anguish and non-consent mark her for another

Ten doors down on the right just there

The face was sleeping, still in its powder

She had had no funds that night

The boy stood on the left, the girl on the right

Almost silently, he slit the strumpet’s throat

She woke only to open her eyes wide, then die as the font continued to flow

The door closed on its own in repulsion, to protect the world from the monsters

But as the divine crimson spewed forth from the slice

The boy and girl reveled in the world they had created

There was enough in the young harlot to fill up a sow ten times over

It seemed a never-ending fountain of life

Go ahead, touch

She reached her hand into the stream and was surrounded in a veil of boiling scarlet

I wish someday to cut you like that

She flushed, a thing that did not happen to her very often

Splattered with the sweet cerise, he drew near her in the waterfall

With utter assuredness and no doubt in his mind

He undid her once pristinely white bodice

Watching the red nectar drip down his face, she felt a draw of destiny

She let him take her to the blood-drenched sheets

[thehomeofduck]

Curse of the Fold | Chapter 5

Rating: Explicit (Violence, Sexual Content) Pairing: Daryl/Buck, M/M, Canon/OC

Wattpad || AO3 [Masterlist] || [Prev] || [Next]

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January 10th, 2011.

The walkers broke through yesterday. Caved a whole section of the outer fence in and were diving in like hellbent piranhas.

Rick and Daryl drove them off with the pigs. Got rid of several and allowed the others to help put up posts. 

I felt like I should’ve helped, but I couldn’t make myself move. I hate feeling like this. Every time they get so close, I panic. 

Before the fence went down, there was an outbreak within the prison. Kid had a disease that killed and turned him. Now anyone could be infected too, including everyone that was in there during that chaos. I could be as well. I haven’t shown any symptoms yet.

“Buck?”

I pull my head from my journal. Remembering my surroundings. I was outside with Dutch again. He rested behind me, enjoying the feel of grass on his coat as he lay with Flame. 

“We’re thinking of going just out of town to run for supplies. I thought I’d ask you to come with us. Extra hands are always nice.” Michonne walked up to me. 

I closed my journal, thinking for a second. I wanted to help, and I didn’t like just sitting around all day. “I don’t mind coming.”

She gave me a soft smile. “Good, okay taking Dutch? The boys already claimed the other seats.”

I rolled my eyes, standing and closing my journal. “Yea, that’s fine by me.” I turned to put the book into the saddlebag. “I’ll get him set.”

“Thank you.” I heard the crinkling of paper, turning to her. She held out a folded up map. “It’s already got the place marked down.” 

I took it from her, nodding in a silent thank you. She turned, walking back to the car where the others were packing what they needed.

I turned my intention to the lovebirds, well lovehorses. “Come on, Dutch.” I grabbed his lead. He watched, knowing exactly what was wanted. He seemed to contemplate, only to get up anyway. 

My hands fell down to my sides as I waited. Dutch leaned down to Flame, touching noses and giving a soft snort to her. She let out a sigh, snorting back. He turned back to me, waiting. 

I took the time to fasten his lead. I shoved a stool over with my foot, grabbing his saddle off the fence. Swinging it over him, I made sure it was secure. I watched as he played with the lead in his mouth, swinging the rope back and forth. Chuckling to myself as I stood on the stool, I climbed over him. I tapped at his side, the spurs of my boots gently rubbing on him, signaling him to go. 

Dutch trotted down the road, and we left the main gates. Following Michonne and the others in the car from a bit back. I let Dutch make his own way down the road, pulling my revolver from the saddle holster. I checked to make sure it was loaded, before strapping it to the one on my own hip.

I looked around; the roads were bare. Walkers mostly wandered the forests because of the smell of animals. Although they were usually rotted. The car had been out of sight from a turn, but I wasn’t too worried. It was a long stretch of road to the highway, no turns along the way.

I started to speed up a bit as time went on, getting Dutch into a canter, so I didn’t fall too far behind. 

The faint sound of gurgling walkers hit my ears. I assumed it had just been a few on the road that wondered from the sound of the car. I glance down at the map. After this next turn, it was just a long stretch to the highway. I shove the map back into Dutch’s saddlebag. 

Looking up, I quickly grabbed Dutch’s lead, pulling it back roughly. He skidded to a stop. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand walkers, covered everything in front of me. The entire road, even the highway that was yards away. 

My heart started to pound out of my chest as I looked around. Walkers grew closer, leading Dutch to stand on two hooves. His high-pitched scream pierced my ears. But I couldn’t cover them. I gripped hard onto the lead and saddle to not be thrown off, his front hooves slammed back onto the ground, sending me forward. 

I sat back up, looking around me again for some way out. Walkers grew close behind us. I could see walkers laying on the ground and then a pile of them. The car that was once driving in front of me had been stacked on top of walkers, doors open and empty. I couldn’t check for sure without being surrounded or having Dutch throw me off. 

I pulled his lead to the left, quickly guiding him towards the trail of walkers. He took off in a canter, ducking into an open spot in the bushes. Dead walkers lay scattered while leftover ones roamed. 

“Easy boy, easy.” I spoke softly, despite my own fear rippling through my body. I tried to act calm for him. Panicking would only freak him out. I led him through around the walkers, speeding up when needed to get around them. We were both up on alert, being careful of every angle around us. I was so tense.

I grabbed my map out to check where to go now. I could barely keep my eyes on it for more than a few seconds. The route wasn’t too complicated. There was a trail I could get to. It’d lead to a creek and a bridge, then back out to the road. I’d just have to follow it until I hopefully found the others.

The walkers grew less and less, all too slow to follow. 

“Easy.” Dutch slowed at the command. We approached the trail, and I began to follow. Even while away from all the walkers, I still felt paranoid. I never knew for sure if I’d be okay. It’s why I never liked going out alone or in forests. One wrong turn and you could be at a dead end. One wrong move and you could fall down a hill. I didn’t know the area well either. 

I could hear the soft sounds of running water. As we walked through the trees and bushes, I saw the creek. I followed down the trail beside it, spotting the bridge afar. I slowed Dutch to a stop, pulling my legs up over him and sliding off his back. 

He leaned down, already starting to munch on some grass below. I walked to the edge of the creek, crouching down to cup my hands in the water. I pulled it to my face, rubbing the cold water over my skin. Cleaning off any dirt and waking me up a bit. I suck in a breath, realizing the water was colder than I had first thought. I shake it off, cleaning up my hands. 

I heard a snort from Dutch behind me. I turned to look at him. His ears were pointed straight forward and he looked around on high alert. I stood to observe him. He looked towards the bush beside him as it began to rustle. 

Before I could call him over, he let out a loud whinny, a walker coming from the bushes to grab for him. I tried to get my footing on the rocky edge, running towards him. He took off in a hurry.

“Dutch!” I followed after him, calling to grab his attention back. He continued to run, startled at other walkers along the way.

“Fuck fuck fuck.” I tried to follow him, only able to run so fast. 

Something yanked on my ankle as I ran, sweeping my feet out from under me. When my vision cleared, I found myself upside down, looking back to where I'd come.

I try to look around, barely able to twist my body. I looked down. There was about a six-foot space between me and the ground. I was very clearly hanging. I look back up, swinging a bit to take a look at my legs. One of my ankles was strung up by a thick rope, the other hanging. I took a moment to try and process it. I was just trying to catch up to Dutch. And now I’m swinging upside from some rope in the middle of buttfuck nowhere. 

I pulled my free leg up a bit, getting it a bit more comfortable so I hadn’t strained. Reaching into my side holster and digging out my hunting knife. I froze, hearing rustling from the bushes. The walkers had followed me down the path. I scrambled to pull myself up, shaky and panicked. I tried to saw at the rope. My back was straining, as I couldn’t get a good angle.

I let out a huff, falling back. The blood rushed back down to my head, making it pound. I squeezed my eyes shut to try and focus. My eyes fluttered open, only to widen as a walker was right in front of me. It reached towards my face.

“Fuck!” I grabbed a hold of its wrist, shoving it up and out of the way. Without another thought, I brought my knife down onto its head, letting it immediately drop. The handle slipped from my fingers as the walker's weight dropped. I tried to grab it but couldn't get a grip. My body swung from left to right. 

I patted along my body, trying to feel for any other knives. I hadn’t brought any more with me. The other walkers weren’t far off, but too close for my own comfort. I didn’t have a knife to cut the rope, I couldn't tug it off. Only other thing I could do was pull myself up.

I sigh, taking deep breaths to try and relax. Catching my breath, I pulled myself up. I grabbed onto the rope with one hand, using it as leverage to pull me up more. The rope burned into my hands as they slid against the rough texture, making me hiss. I took a deep breath in, holding it. My body strained and pulled as I forced myself up, climbing the rope with every new inch I could reach. 

I finally let out a gasp, sitting upright. I tried not to put weight on my foot as it’d only grow tighter. Pushing myself further, I pulled my body up the rope more. I wiggled my foot, and the rope became loose without pressure. My hands grew sweaty, and I was losing grip on the rope. I slid down despite my desperate grasps at it. Only burning and cutting open my palms on tiny bristles of rope.

I looked below me. Walkers were closer now. But I also couldn’t stay up here forever. I try to ease myself down as much as I can, letting go and bracing myself for the six foot drop. Pain shot through my shin as it hit the ground. I could only sit for a second before forcing myself up, ripping the knife from the walker that lay dead. 

I turned, shoving it through the eye socket of the one that approached me. I twisted the knife and pulled back, not looking behind me as I ran past. Pain seemed to shoot through my leg with every step, making me limp and hold my breath. I brought two fingers to my lips, letting out a loud whistle, hoping Dutch would come. I followed the long trail, knowing it at least led to the road.

My heart pounded and I let out another sharp whistle. Nothing. I heard no whinny, and I heard no hooves hitting the ground. Only the sounds of walkers emerging from the surrounding forest. I got slower; the pain was harsh, and I felt like I was just breaking myself further. I tried to shift more weight onto my other leg. I couldn’t stop. Using my gun would only cause more noise and I didn’t want to risk it with what I already caused. 

I tried another whistle. Still nothing. Where the fuck was he?

[allmightluver]

**bnha spoilers** I'm just sat here with renewed realisation of what All Might is going through. 40 years. /40 years/ he held and refined that power and dedicated his every waking (and sleeping if Vigilantes is anything to go by) moment towards the goal of defeating AfO and creating a society in which people could feel happy and safe. And now as it turns out AfO is still alive, society is broken and he has given a literal piece of his soul to this young boy leaving himself with only phantoms

Yes. I don’t think people quite grasp what all he’s going through.

It’s been shown recently to us that some, if not most, heroes have underlying ambitions in becoming a hero. Whether for money, glory, fame, popularity, doesn’t matter. They’re ultimately in it for themselves. Toshinori’s intentions from the beginning have been the most pure- he wanted to be a symbol that people can look to and know things will be ok. A symbol of hope. This boy was only around 14 years old when he decided this. What kind of 14 year old sees the world that clearly? Sees that people have no hope, that a veil of darkness covers them. The only thing I can think of is- Toshinori did not have a good childhood. Something had to have happened to a boy that young to stop seeing the joy in life so early, and see the world’s flaws. Truthfully, I believe he was an outcast- due to his quirklessness. Most likely an orphan, perhaps abandoned by his parents, as we’ve never seen him have any family. I do truly believe Toshinori has been alone all his life. I don’t doubt more could have happened to him as a child before he met Nana. 

Some may argue that Izuku is the same age, and therefore it shouldn’t be that hard to see why Toshinori wanted to be a hero at such a young age. BUT, Izuku had someone to look up to, ever since he was a child of four years old, to inspire him to be a hero his whole life *cough cough* All Might. Izuku also was quirkless, much like Toshinori, and an outcast because of it (hence where I assume Toshinori was much the same). But ultimately, Izuku wanted to save people because he saw his hero do it. It really wasn’t until Izuku was a bit older, has been in UA, has been on rescue missions, has seen what the heroes see, that I think he’s truly realized how dark the world really is. Toshinori didn’t have that. He didn’t have someone to inspire him as a child, someone to look up to, a hero to inspire him to help others. At that time, heroes hadn’t become as popular as they are in present times. Toshinori saw the world for what it was, on his own, at a tender age. I think that day Nana ran into this blonde hair kid, she eyed him up, noticed his scraggly form, looked into those captivating blue eyes, and saw a man who’s lived through the world’s horrors- experienced the worst it has to offer-, and wants to save everyone he can from the same fate, all in a 14 year old boy. 

Then after only a few short years with the woman he saw as his mother, she’s killed in front of him because of his own weakness- he wasn’t strong enough yet to protect her. The only other person his life, Gran Torino, literally abused him. He beat him to a pulp, taking his own emotions out on a teenager, and I doubt Toshinori said anything of it. He probably thought he deserved it. He’s still afraid of Gran Torino to this day, remembering the beatings and expecting more for his failures- even if he doesn’t know what they are surely he’s at fault for something, but he’s the only person who’s stood by his side for this long. Even while at a distance, and spouting nothing but criticisms along the way. But Toshinori had to put aside his own emotions to be that hope for everyone. He left everything he knew to go to a new country on his own, to learn how to be a hero, to be that hope for someone.

Vigilantes showed us just how hard he worked. Toshinori literally stayed awake with no sleep for days on end- 3 in the chapter I’m referencing- because people needed help, people needed saving, and no one else stepped up. He fought villains, rescued civilians, repaired damage, cleared rubble, (even accept and eat food that was against his dietary restrictions after his injury) whatever the public needed, all while draining himself further. He worked himself to the point of exhaustion because he had no help, once literally falling asleep while mid-leap across the city because he simply could go no further. 

^^These happen in succession of each other^^

No one stepped up to say “Hey, Mr. Number 1, you’ve been working hard lately. Let me help you!” No one tried to take over his position. Even the Number 2 hero, Endeavor, never tried to take some of his burden. His only goal was to try to be better than All Might in terms of power- he was never trying to be the hero that the people relied on All Might for. Everyone relied on him when things looked grim. He was the back up plan. And all of this happened before Toshinori’s injury. 

The only thing he ever wanted to do- help people- he can’t do (at least the way he’s always known how to). The ability to save people has been taken from him in the most gruesome way. He was finally able to fight the man that killed Nana, and in a rage that I’m sure echoed with all of the emotions of the previous users, he smashed that man’s head like a grape. But not without consequence. Several organs are gone. The pain is excruciating. He wears that man’s mark on his body for the rest of his life, never truly able to rid himself of the filth.

Then we have Nighteye’s betrayal. The man that helped him as a sidekick, the man that grew to be his only friend. Now some people may ask why Toshinori flipped like he did to Nighteye looking into his future when he was concerned about him making it through his injury. What I believe is Toshinori didn’t want to know when he would die (and really, who does). Now he knows he’s on a time limit, knows the clock is ticking. Time is running out to keep the world at peace, and with him as he is now, how long can this go on? 

I think the betrayal, doing something that Toshinori specifically asked him not to do, is what hurt the most. How can he trust Nighteye anymore? He already can only count on one hand the people he can trust, let alone befriend.

He’s wasted away into a skeleton, a shell of the man he used to be. He can’t over exert himself without his only lung bleeding in protest. It’s canon in the side books that he really doesn’t eat much, which isn’t good for his diet without a stomach now (he’s supposed to have several small meals a day). He is quite literally punishing himself by starving. (Granted, he doesn’t feel hunger anymore.) He’s a sick man, beyond medical help at this point. They can only stabilize him and hope for the best. For five years now he’s in constant pain, every day. He loses blood like sweat. Surely his veins are bruised and collapsed with how many times he would have needed to be hospitalized. Whether from losing too much blood, being too dehydrated or starved from “forgetting” to eat, or an organ failing as body continues to fall apart. “...even as my body rots and grows frail...” - Toshinori People are bound to stare at him as he walks down the street. A tall, willowy, skeleton with a grimace on his face and blood stains on his clothes as he coughs up more into his own hands. There would be the ones who outright ignore him when they walk by, the people who offer pitying smiles and sympathetic glances or just outright stare, and then ones who are afraid of his appearance- children screaming at the mere sight of him and running to their parents to hide from the monster. Each one is another knife in Toshinori’s side, an ache in his chest. If only they knew who I really am.

Losing Nighteye took a toll on his hero work as well. Mirai was a huge help in the past, and took care of all Toshinori’s paperwork, while also reminding him to take care of himself. Without him, Toshinori was even more buried beneath his responsibilities. Plus, now he was on a time limit. He even snapped briefly in his first meeting with Tsukauchi, accidentally revealing himself as All Might because he was under too much pressure, and telling the detective he literally couldn’t handle doing everything by himself (who graciously took over the paperwork side of things for him). 

He was living a double life now, having to lie to people left and right about who he was while in his small form, about how he became so sickly, why he was here in the first place who the heck is this skinny old guy. Surely he had multiple visits to the doctor while continuing to repair the damage done by AFO (there’s a limit to how much the body can handle at once. And things I’m sure continued to fail as time went on). Then he would be bedridden for as long as the doctors could keep him strapped to a bed, until he couldn’t take the people’s cries for help any longer, and would jump into action. (It’s also revealed he has something of a super hearing- able to hear danger- which may have been a form of danger sense of OFA that was never fully unlocked?. Either way, he surly could sense disasters happening while he could only lay and heal from his latest surgery. Those poor doctors must have had to re-stitch him several times). People blame him for not preparing society for his retirement, that he failed in passing on the torch so to speak, but in reality he did everything possible to keep society from falling for 40 years, doing all within his power just to keep things afloat. He is only one person. One human being, he can’t do everything despite trying to. Society failed All Might.

People blame him for not being a good teacher. He didn’t exactly have the greatest teacher himself to learn from. He’s never had to teach anyone anything, he just punches! He’s learning. And for his own credit, he’s an incredibly wise man, he has years of experience under his belt, and an intelligence score of 6/6, scoring up there with Nezu! He may not always have the right way to bring something up, but he’s doing his best. Yet even he blames himself for Izuku not being able to control his quirk better. Every time the boy hurts himself, it’s just another tally on the chalkboard of Toshinori’s failures. He himself knows the boy deserves better, better than him. Useless. Pathetic.

Then his friend from America, Dave, essentially became a villain trying to preserve Toshinori’s legacy after Toshinori told him about his injury. Dave went behind his back, threatened people, injured people (pretty sure people died), all for Toshinori’s sake. Something he didn’t want to begin with. Having to put your only other friend in jail for trying to help you surely couldn’t have been easy.

Oh, by the way? All For One isn’t dead. All Might will fight him again, publicly, have his weakened form exposed to the world, and have his own emotions toyed with as he finds out about his master’s grandson in the villain’s hands. Would Nana hate him for leaving her son alone like she’d asked, and dooming her grandchild to be raised by the greatest villain? Could he have done anything to save him? But Toshinori isn’t allowed to feel, he has to smile and push his own feelings aside once again, because there’s a villain to be fought, and only he can fight him. Despite coming out on top, he’ll have suffered severe head trauma, broken left arm, destroyed right arm, and several cuts and bruises that are sure to scar. And then, his quirk, the only thing that’s been allowing him to help people, the gift given to him that he carefully held for 40 years and molded into his own until his very consciousness was permanently carved into it, blows out like a match in the wind. And he’s done. Used up. Empty. Broken. Hollow. Alone, again.

He overhears his student, Bakugo, admit that he blames himself for All Might’s retirement. If he hadn’t been captured, All Might wouldn’t have had to save him, and he wouldn’t have had to fight AFO. Of course Toshinori knows that’s not true, his time was about to run out anyway. It would have happened one way or another. But how can he explain to this child that he wasn’t the cause of his hero, the world’s greatest hero, fighting for his sake, bleeding for his sake, being forced into retirement to keep him safe. Every time Bakugo sees the bandages covering Toshinori’s body is another reminder of the pain and sacrifice Toshinori willingly gave to keep him safe. Toshinori wasn’t held when his mentor died. He wasn’t told it was ok to be sad, that grief and mourning was a natural process, that it takes time to heal. He wasn’t told it was ok to cry. Instead his feelings were beaten out of him as he wondered if Gran Torino blamed him for Nana’s death. He already blamed himself How then, does he comfort a child mourning for him? For what he lost.

And then he gets the call to come to the hospital. Mirai, Nighteye, his old sidekick friend, has been gravely injured, much like he himself was only a few years ago, and most likely won’t survive the night. And to his horror, Nighteye is happy to see him, smiles at him, says he doesn’t hate him for what happened, only wants Toshinori to be happy. He can’t accept that, at least let him apologize, reconcile his sins before it’s too late! But it is. Another fractured piece of his heart gone.

Of course, seeing your students beat up and their arms completely destroyed must have hurt. Instead of being able to save these kids, they’re the ones that hurt themselves to save everyone else. And if Bakugo had kept OFA, things could have been very different (especially with what we know now of OFA and people with quirks). Toshinori wasn’t mad at Izuku for transferring it away, he’d never regret choosing Izuku, and I believe he still would have stayed by Izuku and Bakugo’s side should it have stayed in Bakugo, doing whatever he could to help.

As he tells Aizawa, “I’ve decided to live,” -that statement seems so melancholy, besides obvious reasons. It sounds more like another task he has to accomplish. He didn’t die he was supposed to die with the AFO fight, and now the whole life he lived is over. The world has no use for him anymore. If not for Izuku, he’d have nothing left keeping him here. But because his boy made him promise to live, he’ll do so. Though it almost seems like he says those words with regret. “I’ve decided to live.” Not, “I’m going to live!” “Nothing can kill me!” “I won’t go down without a fight!” No. “I’ll live if I have to, only because you asked me to.” The man is obviously and outwardly depressed. He has so many things against him. No doubt has severe PTSD, anxiety, among others. Not to mention his own physical health. Every day hurts. It’s painful to be alive. Why would he torture himself if he doesn’t have to? For you, my boy. You’re the only thing keeping me here. The only light in my dark world.

He tries to help Izuku find out the previous holder’s quirks, to help his boy in any way he can now that he’s worthless, and goes days on end without sleep, running his body into the ground. He even forgets Christmas. Only to find that by giving the boy the same gift he had received, he may have just doomed him to an early death, among psychological torture (danger detection). (Granted, he really doesn’t know how everything works, and he’s afraid to talk to anyone about it). His boy could live only half a life.

It’s only been a few months since he retired, and society has fallen into shambles. People are blaming him. People are dying. He watches helplessly as his colleague fight his fight for him, and end up battered, bruised, crippled, dead. He students, his boy, battle the monster he should have killed. Children are bleeding. This shouldn’t happen. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Is everything he worked for, everything he fought to protect, to build up, to inspire, is all for naught?! Did he live a foolish dream and doom the world? Was all the the friends he lost, tears he shed, the organs he destroyed, the pain he endures on a daily basis from the hole in his side, and the blood he continues to bleed every day, for nothing? The public, the ones he protected for so long, mourn his absence, but surely there are those among them who also blame him. The statue from his last fight in Kamino one that he never asked for was decimated in a mock of his catch phrase- the one that was supposed to give hope.

Now he can feel his own vestige speaking with Izuku in the OFA realm, even with out OFA in his own body anymore. His clock as nearly reached it’s limit, Nighteye’s prediction is due any day now. The only thing he wants is to see his boy smile at him, to give him some shred of hope. Yet the child remains unconscious, and Toshinori can’t even hold his hand from the bandages covering his arms. Will he still be able to fight? Is there any coming back from this now? Did I break him?

With all Toshinori has been through, I’m honestly surprised we haven’t seen him just outright break down. Anyone, anyone, else should have crumbled under the pressure of holding up the world for 40 years alone. And instead of being able to pass it on to someone when he can no longer bear its weight, it simply falls to into the abyss. People don’t credit All Might enough for everything he’s done. Most don’t realize the sacrifices he’s made. His character is so unbelievably profound and deep, it’s more than just the “I am here!” people focus on. He’s a deeply troubled, layered, complex character. And I can’t find fault within him.

[deskofninak]

Operation Infiltrate Mystery Sleepover // Spencer Reid x GN!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Reader has worked at the BAU for over a year now and their sleepovers with fellow colleague and tech analyst extraordinaire Penelope Garcia are legendary. Legendary in that nobody else is invited and the girls have so much fun being mysterious about them that everyone else in the BAU seems to think they're either crashing weddings or donning capes and protecting the city as vigilantes. Cue Emily and Morgan hatching a plan to find out the truth and sending Spencer to infiltrate the next sleepover.

Warnings: Gender neutral BAU Agent!Reader, use of ‘Y/N’ once, mention of eating food, reader likes reading (Perks of Being a Wallflower & Truly Devious mentioned), tooth-rotting fluff.

Word Count: 2540 | 6 sections

Happy Reading! :)

1.

Emily dropped the pen onto her desk and placed her chin on her propped up fist, watching as Garcia and you animatedly talked in the kitchenette. You had joined the team only a year ago and had managed to become closer to Garcia than even Morgan, which was saying something. You two were joined at the hip, constantly referring to secret jokes and giggling by yourselves. 

“Those two at it again, huh?” JJ’s voice snapped Emily out of her reverie.

She nodded without glancing at her girlfriend. “What are they talking about now?”

“Garcia said they were planning another sleepover over the weekend.”

Emily huffed and JJ gave her a bemused look. 

“They never invite us to their sleepovers,” Emily said, adding at JJ’s raised eyebrows, “Me. They never invite me to their sleepovers.”

“Why don’t you just ask if you can join them?” JJ said indulgently.

“I did.” A pause. “They said it wouldn’t be ‘my thing’.”

JJ chuckled under her breath. “Let me know when you’re done fuming so we can discuss where we’re having our date tonight.”

Emily distractedly waved at her as she left.

2.

The lunch break brought Derek Morgan to Emily’s desk where he decided to join her in watching you and Garcia watch a YouTube video together while eating. Derek had also long wanted to be part of whatever you two were up to but, as with Emily, had been informed that the sleepovers just wouldn’t be his ‘vibe’. The two sat festering in their exclusion, eyes narrowed, nostrils flared, looking for all the world like two bulls ready to charge.

They soon found their sight blocked by a tall, lanky figure. “What are you two doing?” The boy genius looked back at you and Garcia, and then again at the fuming duo.

Emily was too bothered to try to conceal her feelings. “I want to go to their sleepover,” she ground out, Derek nodding seriously. 

Your and Garcia’s sleepovers had become legendary within the team for the simple reason that you two refused to divulge what you did during them. What had started out as a simple joke had stretched to outright lying. At times, you claimed you crashed weddings, and ate and drank to your heart’s content. Other times, you claimed to don capes and save the city’s innocent residents from evil. Penelope had even photoshopped pictures of the two of you in capes to sell the joke. The more you were asked, the more ridiculous your lies became until the sleepovers came to represent something unattainable to Derek and Emily.

“I want to go to their sleepover,” Derek echoed, looking at Emily. “We need to plan a mission to infiltrate the next one.” Devilish grins rose on their faces.

Spencer frowned and backed away, but Derek stopped him. “Where do you think you’re going, pretty boy?”

“Away from you two and your crazy ideas.”

“Nuh-uh.” Derek shook his head. “You’re going to help us. And unless you want Emily to tackle you, I’d suggest you sit down.”

Reid sighed and perched on the edge of a spare seat.

“Rumour has it,” Derek paused, looking around to make sure no one was listening. Spencer rolled his eyes. Derek dropped his voice to a whisper. “Rumour has it you have a standing invite to their sleepovers.”

Emily’s eyes widened and she smacked Spencer’s arm.

“Ow, easy, Prentiss,” Spencer whined.

“I’ve been talking about attending their sleepover for weeks and you never mentioned this!”

“I didn’t want - stop hitting me, Prentiss - to gloat,” Spencer said.

“Here’s the plan,” Derek said, “Spencer is going to accept the invitation, and find out once and for all what goes on in there.”

Emily nodded. “Great plan.”

“No, not a great plan,” Spencer said. “I’m not going to spy on my best friends for two weirdos.”

“Okay, look,” Emily looked at Spencer so intensely the doctor looked away. “We know you have a crush on Y/N.”

“What? No!”

“Yes, you do and it’s really obvious to everyone except them.”

Spencer was readying more refusals but Emily shushed him.

“Don’t think of it as spying. Think of it as having a sleepover with your crush. That sounds fun, right?”

Spencer opened his mouth and then closed it again. Emily made it sound so nice and … Spencer shook his head, glaring up at Prentiss. “You’re a monster.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“And,” Derek added, “who knows? Maybe they’ll fall in love with you.”

Love. The word clanged through him.

Spencer took a deep breath and looked at Prentiss and Morgan. “I will think about it.”

They let out an excited cheer because they knew, the way Spencer did, that the answer was actually yes.

3.

Spencer grabbed his go bag and headed out the door of the building towards Garcia’s car. He’d approached you and Penelope shortly after talking to Morgan and Prentiss, and you had been ecstatic that he’d finally decided to join in. Spencer, however, was a little nervous.

The tales of the sleepovers were wild and Spencer wasn’t sure he wanted to break into a zoo and feed the alligators, if that was even what you did on your rendezvous. He just hoped, whatever it was, that it didn’t require a lot of social interaction because he was truly spent for the day. He was relieved, thus, when you pulled into the parking lot for your apartment complex. 

As the three of you stood at the door, you fiddling with the lock, Spencer turned to Garcia. “What exactly are we going to do tonight?”

Garcia’s lips quirked up in a smile and she looked at you. The lock was open but you hadn’t opened the door yet. Spencer shot you a questioning look and for a singular anxious second, his heart dropped to his stomach.

You, his best friend, the person he trusted most, noticed the flicker of worry in his eyes and gave him your most earnest smile. “Nothing to worry about. We just have a rule for these sleepovers.”

Reid’s fist uncurled. Rules. Yes, he liked those. 

Garcia stepped in front of the door and turned to Reid. “You must solemnly swear to never tell anyone in the BAU what we will do tonight. If asked, you must make up a lie that is entirely too ordinary or entirely too extraordinary to be true. Do you agree?”

A hint of a smile flickered on your face and Spencer felt a wave of relief. “Yes, I do,” he nodded.

Garcia and you giggled a little. “Welcome, Dr. Spencer Reid, to the Island of Misfit Toys.”

Feeling brave and a little silly, Spencer sketched a bow and the trio entered the dark apartment. You flicked on the lights and the electric fireplace, and Garcia took the bags toward the bedroom. Spencer seized the moment to look around. The living room was tiny but cosy. The fireplace cast a warm glow on the cream sofas laden with pillows. A pile of books perched on the coffee table next to some candles. There were plants on the shelves and fairy lights on the walls, and Spencer could see a solitary tree outside the window, naked and swaying on that chilly winter’s night.

Unbidden, a thought rose in Spencer’s mind: I could get used to this.

“Isn’t this place just the cosiest?” Garcia said, leaning against the door jamb, suckling on a toffee. Spencer found himself nodding, the tightness in his chest easing.

You stepped out of the bedroom, cat ears on your head. “Shall we begin?”

“You guys still haven’t told me what we’re going to be doing? How crazy should I expect this all to get?”

Garcia and you exchanged a glance. “We don’t actually do anything crazy on these sleepovers. It’s just a night in to relax. We hope it’s not disappointing.��� Spencer watched the excitement in your eyes and he was absolutely certain that the evening would not disappoint.

4.

The evening started by pushing aside the coffee table and pulling all the blankets and pillows to the floor. You’d ordered dinner and boy oh boy, was it a feast. There were noodles and pizzas and pastries and a bowl full of candy. You’d lit some candles on the fireplace mantle and the room was a glowing beacon of comfort. 

As you gorged yourselves on the food, you narrated childhood stories, Garcia told them about the latest online game she’d been obsessed with and, much to Spencer’s surprise, he spent a good 15 minutes talking about his latest reread of War & Peace, a book neither you nor Garcia had read or ever shown any interest in reading but you’d both listened all the same. It both left Spencer disoriented and made him feel seen. 

He might have supposed that Garcia listened because you did, but a quick rifle through his memories revealed the startling truth that Garcia had never before interrupted his rambles either. Honestly, the two hung out alone so rarely he hadn’t noticed. He vowed then to visit Garcia in her ‘goblin hole’, as she called it, more often.

Once most of the boxes of food had been emptied, you all headed to the kitchen. Garcia was sufficiently familiar with the area and began commanding Spencer to pack up the remaining food and place it in the fridge. You busied yourself with washing the dishes and Garcia elected herself in charge of music. 

Spencer had always preferred to listen to classical music but he had begun branching out his interests at your enthusiastic insistence. The music began to blare from the speakers, loud enough that he flinched at first. You noticed and it pleased him to no end when you subtly gestured to Garcia to reduce the volume. 

While packing the boxes, Spencer lightly began to tap his foot in time with the music. He’d never been a dancer and the small rhythmic movement might have embarrassed him had Garcia’s voice not reached his ears. He watched with equal parts shock and amusement as Garcia began to belt out the lyrics, extremely offkey even to his untrained ears, and he could see you at the sink, dishes in hand, shaking your hips and nodding your head, mouthing the words. Garcia walked by Spencer, giving him a hip bump and then perched herself on the kitchen counter. 

And there was something about that moment, with the candles and the fairy lights and the fireplace, with the cheery music and bawdy singing and joyful dancing, with the moon shining outside the window, illuminating the stacks of books strewn across the living room, with the cat ears on your head and the stars in your eyes, that reminded him of a quote from a book you had made him read called The Perks of Being a Wallflower.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

5.

Spencer stood on the balcony, watching the solitary tree. You often said how you loved that the tree looked so scary on wintery nights and Spencer found himself agreeing. He heard footsteps behind him and turned to find the person themself stepping out onto the balcony. “Hi,” you whispered, shooting him a shy smile.

After the concert in the kitchen, you’d all retreated to the bedroom, which, Spencer was delighted to find, was where the bookshelf was. They’d watched a movie which was quite fun, but even more interesting was your and Garcia’s reactions. You squealed and chuckled, and were entirely too invested.

Garcia had then decided to turn in for the night. She’d gone to the bathroom to take off her makeup, and you’d stood beside her chatting while she used her makeup wipes. When Spencer had awkwardly shuffled to the door, you had placed the cat ears amid Spencer’s curls, and given him a smile that turned the tips of his ears pink.

He’d retreated to the bookshelves and after perusing through the titles, stepped out onto the balcony, where he was now joined by you. “Hi,” he breathed out. 

“Garcia fell asleep,” you explained. You ran your hand along the dark wall and flicked on the lights. Spencer drew in a full breath as he watched the balcony light up with yet more fairy lights. Quite similar to the living room, the balcony also boasted a plush couch, pots of plants and stacks of books. “Did you have fun today?”

“I did.”

“Good. I’m glad.”

“I should probably tell you something.”

“Oh?” Your eyebrows headed skyward but a small smile played on your lips just the same.

“Emily and Derek put me up to this.” Spencer’s shoulders tightened in apprehension.

You chuckled. “I know.”

“You do?”

“Penny heard Derek and Emily cackling about their ‘evil plan’ in the file room.”

“Oh.” His cheeks warmed. 

“You have a question,” You smiled at him.

“Why did you invite me? You guys refused Emily and Derek.”

You sighed. “Emily and Derek are extroverts,” you chose your words carefully, “and Penny and I thought that a quiet night in wouldn’t really be their style.” You looked over your shoulder into the apartment and then back at him. “And I just really need some quiet sometimes. Don’t get me wrong though,” your words rushed out, “I love them and I love hanging out with them. But sometimes, I need someone like you, someone to have a full moment with, someone who enjoys the finer things in life.”

Spencer was so pleased, he flushed a dark red, looking like a human about to transform into a tabby cat. “That’s - I like that.” You gave him another shy smile.

“Anywho,” You walked over to a stack of books at the foot of the couch and extracted a book, handing it out towards him, “I read this book last week and I thought it was amazing and that maybe you’d enjoy it.”

Spencer took the book from you, looking at the words scrawled across the cover - Truly Devious by Maureen Johnson - and flipped it open. His eyes fell on the dedication - “For anyone who has ever dreamed of finding a body in the library” - and felt a smile tug at his lips. “I look forward to discussing it with you.”

“As do I,” you said. “Now, what would you say to popcorn and Doctor Who?”

“I would say, that sounds like a wonderful idea.” He gave you a full grin.

6.

The next day at work, you were walking back from the kitchenette with a full cup of coffee when you noticed Emily and Derek crowded around Spencer’s desk, no doubt a visit to extract secret information. You walked to your desk, set down your coffee and immersed yourself in your work, pretending not to eavesdrop.

“Spill it, pretty boy,” Derek was saying, ruffling Spencer’s already mussed hair.

The boy genius sighed. “We watched Doctor Who, okay?”

Emily and Derek looked at him in disbelief, then - “Fine, don’t tell us.” The two stormed off.

Spencer looked toward you, finding you smiling at him. He gave you a helpless shrug and you smiled wider. You turned toward the kitchenette and found Derek and Emily glaring at you two over their cups of coffee. Traitor, Derek mouthed and you dissolved into a fit of giggles.

xxxxx

Hope you enjoyed this! Comments and reblogs are much appreciated. :) - Nina

[wri0thesley]

Nat😫😫😫 I'm just reading your naoya posts and I cant😫😫😫 why do I love this arrogant man😫 is it possible to write something of a connected fic to your arrangement story about how he feels jealous over a similarly docile reader (doesnt have to be connected if you dont want tho!!). like he hears about how the reader has been getting marriage proposals from other men since naoya hasnt given an affirmative to your family,,,, and now the reader is forced to consider other candidates (although she still cant atop thinking about our favourite princely asshole) and naoya cant handle this thought lol he deserves to know what angst and the pain of yearning tastes like😌 I hope this wasn't too confusing aaaa😭😭 I love your writing, and im glad youre in this jjk brain rot too🤧

patience - naoya x fem!reader (1.5k)

arrangement // patience // my jjk masterlist

warnings: naoya remains an asshole. submissive reader, arranged marriages, mentions of murder, talk of adultery. pining/angst. not sfw, minors dni!

naoya hates that he can’t stop thinking about you.

Naoya hates that he can’t stop thinking about you.

Oh, he’d meant it when he’d spat ‘pathetic’ and ‘useless’ and ‘worthless’ at you – your bloodline was unimpressive, your lack of cursed technique tragic, your clan elders absolutely idiotic for sending a nobody like you to tempt him. But . . . something about the look in your eyes, the meek little bow of your head, the way you’d listened to every one of his orders with a soft little gasp and a desire to follow them to the latter . . .

He hasn’t told your family that he’s not interested in you, but word gets around the jujutsu community when someone is looking for a spouse. After all, they’re determined to retain blood purity, to keep techniques in the bloodline – your family soon hear that Naoya is still considering all of his options. That other pretty young daughters from other bloodlines have been to see him.

(Naoya rejects them all, for frivolous reasons that he doesn’t want to admit are frivolous. He hadn’t liked the look in that one’s eyes. He didn’t want his children to inherit the colour of that one’s hair. That one had walked two steps behind him, not three--).

You haunt his thoughts. You and the bow of your head, the bite of your lip, the way you’d looked with tears brimming in your eyes. The suggestive curve of you beneath your kimono.

Ugh.

He hears, too, that your family have been exploring their other options. They’d seemed thrilled, at first, that Naoya hadn’t utterly swept you off the table – but six months have passed, and they want their daughter married and out of the house and fulfilling her duties.

He hears about your marriage proposals through that same grapevine. He hears that other men say you are pretty and quiet and obedient, that you will make a fine wife, that you will listen to commands and give soft smiles and raise children like you ought to--

And once, he smashes a glass from gripping it too hard as some nobody in the Kamo clan mentions that he’s going to ask your family for your hand in marriage.

You say no. He hears, too, that your elders are growing frustrated with your dismissals of proposals. They have left behind the thought of marrying you into the Zenin clan, but clearly you’re still clinging to the idea that Naoya might want you despite what he’d said.

He doesn’t, he tells himself, when he wraps his fist around his cock and pumps it and thinks about your look of surprise as his come splatters across your face.

He doesn’t, he tells himself, when he compares a young lady sent to entice him with you. When she looks him in the eye and he thinks that you would never do that, that you would keep your head bowed, that you’d be deferential as he needs you to be.

He doesn’t, he tells himself, as a servant cleans up the shards of glass that he shatters and he asks the Kamo clan member if perhaps he would like to spar, and he hits him just a little bit too hard so he ends up wheezing and doubled over on the training mats as Naoya stalks out of the room.

It’s not his style to pine. He has the pick of every eligible young lady in jujutsu society; he should not be hung up on such a worthless, pathetic little thing.

He hears of another proposal. This one, apparently, hasn’t been rejected straight-out – this one, you seem to be considering. Other members of the Zenin clan don’t understand why his jaw sets at the news.

“You didn’t want her, did you?” He asks. “You didn’t seem keen after the meeting.”

One of his other distant cousins, an upstart too big for his boots, grins.

“That was before she was hot property, though,” he leers at Naoya. “Our golden boy doesn’t like the idea of people coveting his trash--”

Naoya has struck him before he can think and stalked out of that room, too. Something about you has truly opened the can of worms that is Naoya’s violence, and he refuses to admit to himself that it’s because he wants you.

It’s not because you’re hot property – though, certainly, the way other men talk and laugh about you and the knowledge that you’re wanted serves to set a fire within him. It’s because he can’t stop thinking about you.

He tries courtesans. He chooses pretty, well-mannered ones who look a little like you – but their eyes when they look at him are glassy. They’re not the same as yours, brimming with life and want and confusion at the position you’ve found yourself in and the way your body responds to Naoya.

He doesn’t admit to his mistakes. He doesn’t think ‘I should have accepted the proposal, I should have joined the clans’ – instead, he thinks ‘I should have fucked them then and there. I should have made them scream my name until their reputation was ruined and everybody knew they came apart on my cock. It’s their fault that I can’t get them out of my brain.’

He walks with fists and teeth clenched and snaps at every servant who dare looks his way. Naoya has always been unpleasant, but he’s downright impossible with his spine in knots and his eyes narrowed.

He’s going to have to do it. He’s going to have to contact your family, ask for another audience, if only to get your fucking face out of his mind--

He’s not expecting to come across you before he’s even made the call, standing in one of the gardens of the Zenin estate. You’re wearing the same kimono you had first visited him in, and he hates that the sight of it makes a throb low in his belly as he remembers seeing it crumpled on his bedroom floor. He swallows as he stalks towards you and you turn, your pretty eyes widening – he sees the flash of memory, the flash of desire. He wonders if anybody would dare speak to him if he took you right here, in the garden--

An older man opens a door behind you.

Naoya recognises him only vaguely. The Zenin estate is swarming with various, less important Zenins; this one’s a great-uncle, perhaps? Or a cousin thrice removed? He’s someone unimportant in the grand scheme of things, save for the way that he walks up to you and wraps an arm around your waist.

“Ah,” the man with his hands on Naoya’s property says. “I see you’ve met my betrothed.”

His heart stops cold. He’s nobody. Unimportant. Nothing.

He’d called you the same thing; an ‘act of charity’. So why does the sight of an arm around you attached to a man too old and not powerful enough to be a threat make Naoya feel like he’s chewing rocks? Naoya manages to spit out a;

“Congratulations.”

“Yes,” the old man (great cousin? Naoya doesn’t make a habit to remember people he can’t use later on) says, pulling you closer, groping at your hip through the kimono as you keep a sedate, smile on your face without looking directly into Naoya’s eyes. “You’ll be seeing her around a lot. I hope she didn’t bother you.” A squeeze to your ass, this time, shameless. “Say hello to the future leader of the clan, sweetheart.”

(At least this man’s on Naoya’s side, he tries to console himself, but it doesn’t work.)

“H-hello, sir,” you say, and your voice is as tremulous as he remembers it. His cock stirs. He hates this.

“Sorry to bother you,” he inclines his head politely and tugs on your arm, pulling you away, leaving Naoya kissing his teeth and trying to not simply slit the man’s throat with the knife in his hakama and take you for his own.

What had the scum said? ‘You’ll be seeing her around a lot’. He supposes, then, that you’ll be sequestered in one of the other chambers in the Zenin estate--

A slow smile spreads across his face.

You wouldn’t say ‘no’ to your clan leader, would you? And . . . your future husband is old. Any Zenin is a Zenin, is it not? Even if a son is born with Naoya’s features, Naoya’s technique . . . nobody would say anything to him about it. And you’re in reach. Close to him.

He only needs to get you alone before the wedding to make sure he gets to take your maidenhead. He hates the thought of another man’s filthy hands on you, but accidents happen all of the time--

And then you’ll be a widow. You won’t be expected to marry for a while. And if you’ve already borne fruit and proved yourself – perhaps Naoya will even play the chivalrous leader and lower himself to take you for his own.

Yes. Just a little patience.

This is an arrangement he can get behind.

[interstellargatorskinboots1812]

TAPPED INTO YOUR MIND AND SOUL

SUMMARY

Arabella Shelby is tired of the antics of her twin brother Tommy. She hates how she is always left on the back-foot of what is going on. As a fierce and intelligent force to be reckoned with, she knows she is more than capable of dealing with the more unsavoury side of the Shelby Company Limited.

She's made a decision that if Tommy won't allow her to come out of the shadows, then she will make light of her own, elsewhere. But will a deal with the devil be the answer to her problems? Tommy has a proposition for Arabella and one that will see her tied to his most untrusting of business associates. Will Arabella take the plunge and start a new life in Camden, beside the most eccentric and sadistic bread makers and leader of the Jewish Gangs in London, Mr Alfie Solomons?

CHAPTER ONE: Satisfaction Seems like a Distant Memory

She can feel her patience ebbing, like the whiskey reserves behind the bar. Arabella  Shelby grinds her teeth and wills the antagonism feeding her veins, to dissipate. The room drowns in the heavy tones of men as they jeer and chat obnoxiously , each having to shout to be heard over the man behind them. Women screech and laugh uproariously trying desperately to gain some favorable attention from any of the rowdy males. Her malachite gaze looks down to her red tipped long nails, holding a now empty brandy glass . She hates the atmosphere and finds the behaviour encircling her to be stifling.  Flinching, she ducks away from the spittle flying from the faceless philanderer, trying and failing to impress her. He was a brave man to say the least, she thought. It was rare anyone dared but look at a Shelby sister. Mores the pity she muses, that each of her brothers are too overloaded with their own egos to notice and intervene with a swipe of their caps. The room stinks of tobacco, a thick and heavy film of smog seems to be connecting one body to another as it clings into the air around them. She should already be out of Birmingham, her bags have been packed since the early hours of this morning and the decision to cut out made long before that. Instead she stays in the newly refurbished Garrison, watching the vainglory antics of a family lacerated by their hunger for being high-handed.  

Her eyes train on her older brother Arthur, fresh out of jail,  as he presses a rolled up note onto the table top and inhales his second blue vial of powder with a determined fury. She surveys with intent as he scrunches his face and presses his fingers to his nose to adjust to the sensation of the toxins traveling into his system.

'Fuck sake, Arthur', she rolls her eyes as her troubled brother stands on the bar and addresses  the room under a confident pretension of shouted words. The pub listens eagerly and replies  along dutifully and in an orderly fashion to his toasts for the Small Heath Rifles, The Lane Boys and of course, to the Peaky Fucking Blinders. Pulling a wayward wave of blonde hair behind her ear, she scans the doleful faces of the crowd as they raise their glasses, each hanging onto Arthur's words like obedient children.

'The Peaky Fucking Blinders, eh?’ Arabella scoffs under her breath.

'Whose gunna stop us ?'the gravel tone of Arthur spews out. She watches . The time keeper of events from her spot in the corner booth, examining Arthur as he climbs down out of sight, the mask slips  as his brow becomes deep set and his expression dulled. She shifts her weight as the leather studs of the booth stab her fiercely in the back. Glancing across the bar to her younger brother, John she observes his dirty and paranoid glances to his wife as he knocks back yet another whiskey. As for her twin, well Tommy was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t seen him since Epsom earlier that day, when he had told her that he needed to see her urgently for business reasons but then had seemingly disappeared into the ether. Well, she had need to see him urgently too, although he may not like her reasons.

To the outside world the Peaky Blinders were an untouchable force to be reckoned with. Raconteurs racing their way up the crime ladder and vying to be the top of the chain. Money was rolling in and reputation was building, Tommy was making a name for the Shelby Company Limited and a name for himself. However, behind the façade  the cracks were springing thick and fast. The family felt fractured and Arabella felt completely disconnected. Dealing with the legitimate side of the business, being a woman within the family, Tommy did not want her getting mixed up into the illegal and dangerous goings on. He would listen to her smart ideas before dismissing them and then re-imagining them with his own. She had begged for Tommy to take her to London to run the start of their empire down there, an ambition that Tommy had staunchly diffused, particularly after what had happened to their younger sister. 'London is no place for a woman like you, it’s heaving with trouble and violence and no sister of mine is going to get caught up in it on my behalf'.

'Pfft and here was me heeding your words of this business being a modern Enterprise that believes in equal rights for women. Those are your words Thomas, or do they only matter when it suits?'

They had argued for days over the matter, of course Thomas had won out and it was Arthur running the show down in London. Upon his arrest, however much it angered Tommy under it’s circumstances,  it made his gloating no less bearable when he reiterated that this was why she shouldn't go to the city, Arabella argued back viciously that had she been in charge down there, none of this would have happened because she had a lid on things and was not riddled with the lingering effects of war, mixed with a habit for white powder rotting her faculties.

She could face no more of being on the back foot of what was going on, of having her intelligence shunned and her opinions chewed up and hashed back out in the guise of another. The last few months had been eventful, in the precipice of war with Sabini's Italian gang and in an mistrustful partnership with another, fighting for the dominant control. What good was she to be by being the pretty face at the fucking bookmaker's reception, seemingly in the dark about everything going on beneath the surface.

Unlike her younger sister, Arabella longed to be more involved in the family business, to handle the threats, the plans and the schemes. She knew she was worth more, that she could handle more. She had repeatedly begged Tommy to allow her to be more involved but to no avail. If she couldn’t be more to the family business than somebody who handles it’s books, when it could be seen that she had so much more potential, then she didn’t want to be involved at all. She had made her decision that she would not stand by and be dismissed and so she would wait for Tommy to return to his office and she would tell him she wanted out. Family or no family, her ambitions were being stifled and she would not stand for it any longer.

'Excuse me', she says with a flash of a scowl, pushing at the shoulder of the offending would be suitor to allow her to get up. She manoeuvres the silk crepe of her yellow dress, it's horizontal pointed waistline spiking down like daggers. She couldn't wait to get home and take of the dress. It still smells of smoke from the burning bookie bonfires started by her brother's gang. She wanted to remove every last stitch of Epsom still clinging to her.

Just as she gets to her feet and moves forward, she is  hauled back. She glances down to find his fat fingers gripping at her upper arm, fingertips pushing into the flesh.

'Now come on sweetheart, I haven't finished talking to you yet'.

Momentarily, she's startled by the misogynistic manner of his speaking, The moment quickly passes though.

'Ooff!'

The air rushes from his lungs, his stomach moving to a more unnatural position , Arabella uncurls her fist from his diaphragm. His face is turning more scarlet by the second as he desperately tries to suck down more air to get his breath back. Leaning into his ear, she makes her tone curt.

'Call me sweetheart and touch me again  and  it'll be more than the air I'll take from your chest. Now, fuck off'.

Whipping her red felt hat from the viscid table, she heads for the exit without a sideways glance back. Tommy would see her tonight, alright.

                          ___________________________________

MASTERLIST HERE

TAGLIST: Let me know if you want to be added!

@lokigirlszendaya​​

[another-shameless-fangirl]

Swamp

Jack and Maddie Fenton used to travel a lot more when the kids were young. The best way to study ghosts was field research. Amity Park had a few regular sightings, sure, but other beings would be reported and anything within driving distance was investigated and recorded carefully.

The Fenton’s didn’t have any friends or family moving into Amity. The ghost activity was reason enough for the location but the isolation meant there weren’t many choices for the small business to continue operating smoothly with children in the picture.

Danny and Jazz would tag along in car seats with brightly colored books and stuffed animals for these rides. They would watch with wide eyes as their parents used machines and gizmos and look for evidence of ghosts in the dark. Ghosts were remnants, wisps of what remained in this world after a living soul departed it. Any little bit of evidence they could find would be monumental.

Ghost stories were as old as stories themselves, but the technology used to confirm them?

Well that was revolutionary.

The Fenton’s seldom found anything worth writing a paper on and when they did, the kids weren’t able to see it from where they were left in the car or firmly behind their parents. Otherwise they seemed underwhelmed by the spikes recorded on graphs and the recordings of otherworldly speech that sounded jumbled and nonsensical to anyone but the well trained.

Jazz wasn’t well trained and Danny wasn’t old enough to do much more than nod enthusiastically when told something in excited tones. Jasmine slowly lost interest in their weekend outings and put her time in other interests, the promise of a motel stay and a diner breakfast not enough to keep her enthusiasm once she hit her stride.

An overnight at the local Girl Scout camp was the perfect excuse. Danny didn’t fare well overnight without his parents and he was able to find wonder in being out at night past his bedtime and being an only child for just a little while.

He also knew all his colors and had picked up on the lingo to “man” his own station. He was a smart kid, knew how to help in his own way, and loved being out on little adventures. It was just another weekend trip to investigate a ghost sighting, this one in Buttonland Swamp.

What could go wrong?

Maddie set the sensor on the hood of the car. It wasn’t powered on yet, but hopefully by the time they had a baseline set the Fenton Spectrometer would find something worthwhile. Most ghosts in swamps were lights, often a phenomena explained by escaping gas and reflections in the moonlight.

Tonight the moon was dark, a waning crescent moon which meant the reflections off swamp gas would be minimal and any sightings either visual or on the cameras would likely be from a real specter. Jack readied the thermal cameras and Maddie pulled a tripod out of the trunk of the car. She smiled at Danny who had been dozing since about 10pm. He had been trying to stay awake but didn’t have to, he was fine to sleep through the night until they could get to the motel a mere six miles away.

Maddie looked out at the swamp, the farthest the little access road was paved led them to be surrounded by swampland. The humidity was thick and she could taste the rot of vegetation on her tongue. Insects buzzed around the new addition to their environment and Maddie took a moment to spray around them one more time to keep the menaces away. They didn’t need to fill the car with mosquitos and have her son nursing little bites for the next few days. The boy’s head lulled in his car seat as Jack opened the backseat to get out the small metal box that would connect all of their inputs and translate it into something they could read out. He smiled and watched Danny sleep for a moment and then left the door open a touch so as not to bother the boy.

Maddie had everything set up to start on the southernmost swamp first, closest to the road and in the direction of the alleged sighting.

“Jack, can you move the thermal camera to the right a bit. I’m about 15 degrees off center from my baseline.” she said and Jack flashed her a grin.

“You got it, baby!” he said and the camera moved just so and the equipment started to hum to life.

A few minutes went by gathering the reading that would be read later under scrutiny and fluorescent lab light. For now, a Maglight was passed between the two scientists as the only source of illumination. The noise level was moderate carried by the wet air. Animals went around in the brush, frogs screeching and bugs swarming through the marsh leaving a constant buzz and chirp and groan in the air. Maddie’s eyes darted toward these sounds several times, but growing up in the south she was accustomed to the noises if not the specific species that lived this far north.

“Mads, come look at this. Some of these plants seem to be glowing.” he said excitedly. He called from the northern edge of the road standing closer to the ditch and the treeline than the broken pavement.

Maddie was the one who specialized in biology and bioluminescence could account for some of the paranormal sightings. She walked the short distance down into the swamp and the ground had just begun to squelch under her boots as she met up with where her husband had one of the cameras pointing up the side of a Cyprus. Sure enough, up the tree is a splattering of glowing green.

“Foxfire.” she nodded and used her gloved finger to prod at some of the bark under the glow.

“What’s that? A fungus?” Jack asked her and she nodded.

“Yes, a mushroom. It’ll kill the tree under it in time but they’re not uncommon where there are dead stumps and logs like this. I’m surprised there aren’t more reports out here if there’s an infestation.” she said standing up tall again. Her notebook was in the car and this was definitely worth jotting down and cross referencing with other reported sightings. How often did a glow in the dark constitute a report? How many dead trees littered this swamp rotting under the stagnant water and-

“JACK!”

The lumbering steps of the man behind her instantly coming at her call was the only thing reassuring about the sight before her

Light from the sedan spilled onto the road from the passenger rear door. The car was empty and Danny was gone.

“Danny?” Jack was the first to call out. Maddie shook herself from her numbing shock and ran forward looking around the car and under it and then away from the vehicle but where was there to go?

The answer was everywhere.

That answer was terrifying.

“Jack, I don’t see him.” she choked on a panicked sob. Danny wouldn’t wander off like that. They were only about thirty feet away he would have seen, he would have heard-

“Don’t worry, Maddie. He can’t have gotten far.” Jack said convincingly. He was coldly calm, analytical as he scanned the quiet trees.

The quiet.

“Jack, the swamp-”

“I hear it too.”

There was nothing to hear. The animals, the cries of frogs and reptiles and the buzz of insects, it had all stopped. The only sound could be attributed to the wind and with that, Maddie’s stomach dropped.

“Jack, the thermal camera.”

The sudden movement to her left was Jack scrambling to tear the camera off the tripod and hold it to his eye. Another beat passed and the whine of technology comforted her.

“Maddie. 5 o’clock.”

The words were hushed and soft but not gentle. The urgency lining his voice was anything but gentle and it scared her.

She whipped her head to their 5 o’clock and there in the rot and wet and sinking mud was a flash of white from a tshirt she knew had a little ketchup stain right under the rocket ship on the front because that was what Danny was wearing and that was her son in the swamp and she screamed.

Jack flew forward faster than what he should have been able to with his large body but it flew and crashed through the swamp and Maddie Fenton found herself right on his heels.

Twigs and rotted bark caught on her suit, mud threatened to suck her down but she and Jack were fueled by adrenaline as they raced toward the direction of that single flash of white. Her husband stopped suddenly raising the camera again and scanned it steadily in a long sweep and she looked out into the darkness unable to see, her eyes trying to account for the darkness as her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

She didn’t need Jack’s camera to point out the ghost.

“Jack-” her own voice was faint in her ears and a ringing took over.

An apparition, a shape that was humanoid but too tall, too large and not quite shaped right walked through the swamp glowing behind the trees as it marched silently. Behind it, the ghost, the monster dragged Danny by the hand, his own body so tiny, her son so tiny in comparison to the thing that led him into water that was getting deeper.

“It’s going to drown him.” she said numbly. They didn’t have time. She ran forward but in the muck she found the swamp sucking her in, her weight too much for the ground to support her as it started to slope into the murky water. If Danny went under here then they would never find him. There would be no trace of him disappearing if that ghost finished its deed.

“Jack, it’s going to drown Danny.” she begged with her voice and Jack could only struggle beside her through the same thick mud with growing desperation.

“Danny!” He called again and this time, she saw her boy’s head turn around to face them. She couldn’t see in the dark, couldn’t see her baby’s face as the monster yanked his little arm and he whimpered in response.

“Daddy!” he cried out and something snapped in Maddie and something shattered in Jack and they both took off into the swamp forcing their way through the grime and knee deep water. Danny was starting to bounce as his little sneakers must have been scrambling for purchase on unseen rocks and wood that had yet to decompose and the icy cold water rose around his shoulders.

“Mommy! Daddy! Help!”

“We’re coming, baby!”

Maddie screamed back at herself and her son. They moved and moved but Jack was slowing down. Maddie leaned forward into the water and started to swim regardless of the debris slicing through her suit and stinging her face.

That monster didn’t even look at them. It just kept a vice grip on Danny’s wrist pulling him deeper into the mire and ruin. They weren’t gaining on it any longer. They were falling behind as the monster led their boy away into the water.

Her mind wanted to label it as if knowing the thing’s name would help her fight it better. A rusalka, a kelpie, some kind of voughas or maybe just an angry spirit that wanted her son.

Whatever this thing was, it would not have her son.

They fought further but the panic grew as they heard the sputter of water entering a little mouth, a splash of panic and uncoordinated hands that found no support because he was just too far away and then nothing. The silence returned and the glow of the specter faded.

They screamed again, agitating the water making it murky and thicker as the two of them bound through the swamp to where they last saw their son. Danny hadn’t come back up. The water reached Maddie’s collarbone. Danny was so small and he was taking classes but he only just started to put his face in the water in the pool at the YMCA, he wasn’t a good swimmer. Maddie sobbed and spread her arms hitting her fingers on splintered wood and wads of wet moss but nothing solid like her boy.

Jack kept calling Danny’s name, any name he thought his son would respond to as he clambered through the murk and risked hitting Danny with his flailing if that meant finding him alive.

Finding him at all.

It had only been seconds that Danny was under, but it felt like hours. Maddie reached again stepping forward and almost tripped on something hard but yielding and startling warm even against her boot.

“Jack!” she didn’t need to say more. Jack threw himself down into the water in a dive shoulder first at her feet and she felt the movement of the water against her sloshing and biting cold until it settled thick and smoothing out at the top.

For a single heartbeat, her terror was the only thing in her mind, body, and soul.

That single heartbeat was something that she would remember for the rest of her life.

A gasp came next and choked sobs and there in front of her, missing one blink, and there the next, the two most important men in her life materialized before her eyes. Dripping wet and coughing breathing in the thick and rotting air was her husband and her baby boy and she shook releasing a sob herself. She looked behind them then behind her and opened her arms covering Danny who cried in their arms as they barricaded themselves around him. There was no sign of the ghost, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.

They whispered reassurances at him, at each other, but nothing seemed sufficient. The only thing they could do was start the agonizingly slow wade back to the road. It took almost twenty minutes to get back compared to the moments it felt like to break into the swamp. By the time the hard, crumbling pavement was under her boots, stale adrenaline was the only thing keeping her upright. They were all covered in mud and dirt and who knew what else.

Their equipment blinked and Maddie very carefully took Danny in her arms like he was the most precious thing in the world. Her world narrowed to him, to her boy and her husband who was so dutiful in watching the treeline, in watching to make sure that thing didn’t come back.

She sat in the car until the bugs started to swarm again, attracted to the fresh smell of sweat and blood. The frogs started bellowing in the dark and Jack stood in front of them a barrier and a tower of strength, a strength that she felt fading from her sore body.

As nature returned and restored itself, Maddie got out leaving Danny sleeping in his car seat filthy with a streak of tears as the only clean spot on his face. They kept their backs to the car as they dismantled the equipment. The cameras, the recording devices, the useless bits and bobs and things they made for this moment that turned out to be useless.

They drove straight home and gave their son a bath in their own bathtub and let him sleep between them in their own bed. Danny didn’t say much about the experience. As time went on and the finger-shaped bruises around his arm faded, he didn’t seem to remember the experience at all. Jack and Maddie Fenton took that as a mercy and let the matter lie.

They didn’t need to study ghosts and prove they existed. Ghosts were real. Ghosts were real, and they were dangerous.

They didn’t need to study what they were, they needed to know how to destroy them.

Maddie had years of martial arts training, Jack was a massive man who was mostly muscle and none of that was enough to deter a ghost.

That was enough for them to restart their careers, to take their research and start anew.

Fenton Works wasn’t about finding ghosts anymore, Fenton Works was going to be on the frontier of hunting ghosts down and tearing them apart so they could never hurt anyone again.

Maddie Fenton threw herself into inventing things with her husband that would rip, tear, and destroy whatever ghosts were made of. Guns and lasers and things that could do what she wished she could do to that ghost that night were added to an arsenal that would never be big enough.

That night in the swamp was never spoken of again, but it was the reason for everything they would do from that point on.

Maddie never wanted to relive that single heartbeat ever again, in this life or the next.

Ectober 21 Day 6- Twilight

Ectober 21 Day 7- Swamp

Ectober 21 Day 8- Poison

[sunder-soul]

𝖜𝖍𝖎𝖙𝖊 𝖉𝖔𝖛𝖊

❶·❷·❸·❹·❺·❻

Chapter Two: He’s very, very beautiful. Black hair in tidy waves, dark, hooded eyes lined with sooty lashes, full lips, angled jaw, and all his fine features illuminated by the glow from the pub behind you. If you’d met him anywhere else you might have blushed, but here, now, you have to resist the urge to arch a brow. Wordcount: 2.3k Content warning: language, allusions to bigotry.

Story Tags: @crazytwentythrees

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McCollin slams the Records Room logbook down on your desk and you nearly jump out of your skin. “I told you to drop it,” he says coolly.

Your initials are scribbled on the page half a dozen times over the past two weeks. You look up at him wide-eyed. “I…”

“You were only supposed to watch that stupid trial once,” he interrupts, eyes hard.

“Look, I’ve found stuff, McCollin! Merope Gaunt? She ran away with Tom Riddle, for Christs’ sake, they got married and everything! That’s why Morfin was talking about her in his trial!”

He falters, brow furrowing. “How did you find out that –”

“I’ve been doing some work on the case – off hours,” you add hastily at his expression, “and look, I know you said it was pretty cut and dry, but in that whole trial no one actually asks him why he did it –”

McCollin laughs a little unkindly. “No one asked him why he did it? Do you hear yourself? Didn’t you just say his sister married a Muggle?”

“Yeah but she died ages ago,” you say desperately, leaning forward.

“Why does that matter?”

“Morfin was released from Azkaban in ’28 and came home to find his sister gone. He lived right around the corner from those Muggles, McCollin, so why did he wait fifteen years to kill them?”

McCollin gives you a deeply sceptical look. “Your problem is that he didn’t kill them sooner?”

“My problem is there’s no reason that he didn’t kill them sooner!” you correct. “If he’s really such a nutcase, why did it take him that long to get revenge on the Riddles?”

“Maybe he didn’t know who she’d run off with until then,” he shrugs.

“Then how did he suddenly find out in ‘43?”

McCollin sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Look, kiddo, I’m gonna do you a favour. I’ll let all this slide if you drop this thing now and stop letting it distract you.”

You gape at him. “You can’t be serious.”

“I am.”

“But I’ve found –!”

“I don’t care what you’ve found, I need you to do your job,” McCollin snaps, waving at your desk. “So some pure-blood nutter murdered some Muggles because his sister ran off with one of ‘em, what in Merlin’s name is so hard to understand about that?”

“She had a kid with him!” you hiss.

He hesitates again. “You found a birth certificate?”

“No, but she died in a Muggle orphanage and was buried in the pauper’s yard, what do you think happened?”

McCollin, for the first time, looks somewhat doubtful. “Case never mentioned a kid…” he says slowly.

Hope sparks in your chest. “And where was Tom Riddle whilst his wife died in childbirth, huh? Where did the kid end up? Did Morfin know about them? Did Riddle even know?”

McCollin exhales a very fatigued sigh. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you.”

“No,” you say immediately.

“If you figure this out, will you get back to your actual job?”

“Yes.”

“You promise?”

You’re on the edge of your seat. “I promise.”

He grits his teeth. “Merlin… fine. What do you need?”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

You hate Azkaban. The place is dark and cold and dripping wet, the dementors never stay quite far enough away, and the screams and sobs of the prisoners within the black stone stick in your heart for weeks afterwards.

“In and out,” McCollin mutters, pulling off his hat and casting the dementor beside you an aspersing look. “Five minutes, kiddo, and then we’re gone.”

You nod quickly and step down the long, dark corridor, peering at the parchment in your hand and checking it against the cell numbers scratched into the stone on either wall. You find him around the corner. Cell 75191.

You lift your lit wand, squinting into the darkness. “Morfin…?”

There’s the faint clinking of chains and then a skin-crawling hiss that makes your heart clench in fear, followed by a rasping, phlegmy cackle.

“Morfin Gaunt?” you try again, catching sight of movement in the corner of the cell, a figure hunched there.

He only hisses again.

“I don’t speak Parseltongue, Mr Gaunt,” you say with a forced calm, “I’m here to talk about the Riddles.”

Morfin spits at the ground. “Riddles,” he growls. “Fucking Riddles, fucking filthy Muggle Riddles in their filthy stinking house, got what was coming didn’t they? Got what they deserved in the end –”

“You knew about Merope and Tom Riddle, didn’t you, Mr Gaunt?” you interrupt, hands shaking in the aching cold. You bury your non-wand hand in your pocket in vain – the chill of the prison is all-permeating.

“Filthy Riddle… filthy scumsucker…”

“Why did you kill the Riddles in 1943?”

He barks a hideous laugh. “Muggle scum they were, had it coming, saw the light leave their eyes at the end of a wand like was intended, not my sister, not my family –”

“Why did you wait, Mr Gaunt?”

There’s silence. Your heart thrums nervously.

“You got home in 1928 but you didn’t kill the Riddles until 1943… Why didn’t you kill them sooner?” you press carefully.

Morfin doesn’t reply for a moment, and then – “Muggle scum,” he mutters a little dolefully.

“Yes but what changed?” you say, patience fraying a bit. “What changed in 1943? Did something happen?”

“Scourge of the earth… got to get rid of ‘em all, that Grindelwald fellow had the right idea, get rid of ‘em –”

There’s a sound like a heavy door closing in the distance and you’re suddenly very aware that you don’t have a lot of time left. “Did you know about Merope’s child?” you ask pressingly.

Morfin descends into a coughing fit and spits what sounds like a hefty wad of mucus onto the floor of his cell. “Knew it,” he says darkly, “I knew it, that slut…”

“You knew?”

“Looked just like him, didn’t he?” he snarls.

“Who?” you say at once.

“He looked just like that nasty, filthy, disgusting Muggle… Well, they’re all dead now.” He laughs nastily again. “Rotting in the ground where they belong, Muggle scum…”

You can hear McCollin calling for you but your head is spinning. He waited… he waited fifteen years…

If Merope’s son had been born at the end of ’26, he would have been sixteen in July of ’43.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“I know why he waited,” you breathe to McCollin the second you’re back in the safety of the Ministry.

“Why?”

“I know why he waited to kill the Riddles – Merope’s son came to find him – maybe he was looking for his family, he probably grew up in that orphanage – he really did only find out about her kid in ’43 and it made him snap and –”

“Slow down,” McCollin frowns, hand on your shoulder. “What are you saying?”

“You have to get me access to Morfin’s memory of that day,” you say intensely.

His face and his hand fall in unison. “You said that if I got you in to see Morfin, you’d let it go,” he says sharply.

“I know but Jesus McCollin! Shouldn’t we find her son?”

“This is getting out of hand,” he mutters, turning and walking off across the huge entrance hall.

“Please,” you say, following him. “Please! I –”

“No,” he says flatly.

“But –!”

“What, you want to watch murders now?”

“McCollin, just listen –”

“I’m serious, drop it,” he drawls, stepping into an elevator and turning to point at you. “I don’t wanna hear you say the name Riddle again.”

The elevator dings, the door slides shut on McCollin’s serious face, and you sigh in frustration.

“Riddle?”

Your head lifts in surprise. The voice had come from beside you, a very formally-dressed old man with curated grey hair, gold glasses, and a haughty expression. “Yes, sir…?” you ask slowly.

“Ah yes, a real shame, all that,” the man sighs, looking up at the elevators expectantly.

You blink. You recognise the man from around the Ministry, but you can’t think of a single conceivable reason why a senior member of the International Confederation of Wizards knows the name of a Muggle murdered eight years ago. “…Yes, it was.”

“Such a waste,” he shakes his head sagely. “He could have gone far.”

You don’t know what to say. “You’re… you’re talking about Tom Riddle, sir…?”

“Yes, of course,” the man titters, “Slughorn recommended him to me personally – assured me he’d go far. A real talent, he said.”

Something is definitely not right, but the man’s elevator dings and he steps inside at once, expensive robes swirling as he turns. “To end up in Knockturn Alley of all places,” he sighs, “and to think... the boy could have been Minister for Magic one day.”

The doors shut before your gobsmacked face.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

“So let me get this straight,” Mori says lowly, setting down another drink for you. “You think the kid’s here? In Knockturn Alley?”

“I think so,” you murmur as Mori takes your empty glass away. “Either that or some poor schmuck with the exact same name as a murdered Muggle is walking around completely unrelated to all this shit.”

“Have you found anything on the kid?”

You nod blankly. “Looked up the name and found a ton of stuff straight away – star pupil at Hogwarts, won a ton of awards, Prefect, Head-boy –”

“Sounds like a square,” Mori snorts.

“He fell off the map a bit after school,” you frown, leaning forward on your forearms. “Found an address from a few years back but doesn’t seem up-to-date. The guy definitely mentioned Knockturn Alley though, so –”

“If you told me a name, I’ll probably know him.”

You shoot him a nervous look. “I dunno, Mori, I’m really pissing McCollin off with this already. If he finds out I’m leaking names –”

“Well I’ll tell you this for free, no one down this way’ll take kindly to someone in Ministry robes poking their nose around,” he says darkly.

You sigh and take a sip from your drink. “I know.”

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

You leave just past midnight, giving Mori a wave as you grab your cloak and head for the door, already reaching for your wand to Apparate as you push it open –

You walk straight into someone. “Oh,” you exclaim, stepping back. “I'm so sorry.”

“Not at all.”

You look up at the voice in surprise, smooth and pleasant and velvety. The face behind it is even better; he’s very, very beautiful. Black hair in tidy waves, dark, hooded eyes lined with sooty lashes, full lips, angled jaw, and all his fine features illuminated by the glow from the pub behind you as he pushes the door wide and holds it for you, stepping aside with a polite twist to his lips to let you out first.

If you’d met him anywhere else you might have blushed, but here, now, you have to resist the urge to arch a brow. He’s not exactly what you’d normally expect from customers of Moribund’s.

“Thank you,” you say evenly, stepping past him and rather theatrically hoping he’s not some sort of pretty-faced creature that would strike when your back’s turned –

“You’re from the Ministry?”

You hesitate. His question was perfectly curious and well-warranted – the purple robes you were still wearing were also not what one might normally expect from customers of Moribund’s. “I am,” you say quietly, pulling out your wand.

“Are you here on business or for pleasure?” he smiles a little. It makes him even more beautiful. It makes you more suspicious.

“A bit of both,” you say truthfully, thinking of your conversation with Mori.

“Rather strange for someone of your profession to patron a place like this,” says the young man, head tilting a fraction.

You hesitate for a moment, but if he intends on giving you trouble, it feels like a good idea to establish that you have people looking out for you around here. “I’m friends with the barman.”

“In which case it's odd I’ve not seen you more, then,” he says very smoothly, the little twist to his lips returning, “since I’m something of a regular.”

But you’ve had quite enough. “You’re letting the warmth out,” you say politely, inclining your head at the door he’s still holding open as you lift your wand. “Enjoy your drinks.”

“Would you care to join me?”

You hesitate, eyes flicking back to the young man. His head is still tilted slightly as he watches you, and suddenly you can’t tell if the curl to his lips is more attractive or unnerving.

“I’d very much like the company,” he smiles, white, straight teeth, too handsome, too gorgeous.

Alarm bells are going off in your head. Too smarmy. He knows he’s beautiful, that much was certain, and something about him is giving you the creeps in a way that feels strangely familiar. Like you’ve met him before. “No,” you say clearly, “but thanks for the invitation.”

“Ah, I should have known that someone like you would already be spoken for,” he says with a knowing nod, charming and good-natured.

“No,” you frown. You can’t tell what’s rubbing you the wrong way about him, but there’s something.

His brow lifts slightly, like your response surprised him. “Not a fan of the drink, then?”

You snort a light laugh. “No, I am.”

There’s a beat of silence. “An early morning, perhaps?” the young man says just as lightly – though there’s a very faint edge to his expression that you clock at once. He can’t figure out why you’ve rejected him. What an arrogant asshole…

You sigh a bit shortly, liking him less by the second. “Goodnight,” you say pointedly, trying to lift your wand again but –

“Have I offended you somehow, madam?” he asks, sounding slightly amused. “If I have it wasn’t my intention to do so.”

You shoot him a look that is unapologetically annoyed. “You haven’t offended me, you’ve disrespected me,” you say curtly.

His eyes sparkle, his lips curl even more. “By asking you to join me for a drink?”

“By refusing to take my answer graciously,” you retort smoothly, “I said no. I don’t appreciate being cajoled.”

Some of the humour dissipates from his face, and you seize the opportunity to escape.

“Goodnight.”

And you lift your wand in a swift motion and vanish before he can interrupt again.

☆゜·。。·゜゜·。。·゜★

❶·❷·❸·❹·❺·❻

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